


scratch your name into my soul

by Caivallon



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-13
Updated: 2014-11-16
Packaged: 2018-02-04 12:55:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 21,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1779868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caivallon/pseuds/Caivallon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>// <i>I’m in town. Actually I’m in your flat and I’m bored. I expect you to be here in 30 min to fuck me. Otherwise your sheets will get dirty. </i>//</p>
<p>Killian stares at the short message, first slightly confused, then amused. It’s from an unknown number, but there’s only one person in the world who would send him a text like this. </p>
<p>He smirks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Tuesday

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be a short pwp-story about how much Killian loved Peter’s skin inspired by [ **this picture** ](http://i62.tinypic.com/vxj384.jpg) but things got out of hand and it turned this much longer story with feelings and flashbacks and everything. 
> 
> There is still a lot of sex though. ^.^
> 
> Thanks, chocolate, hugs and raspberry cookies go to [ **Bee** ](http://archiveofourown.org/users/tatou/pseuds/tatou) (for her kind and supportive beta-reading ♥ )
> 
> And thanks to [ **Tetila** ](http://archiveofourown.org/users/AwakeMySoul) (you made this a better story ♥ ). 
> 
> I hope you like it (comments and critics would be lovely).
> 
>    
> [](http://de.tinypic.com?ref=9hp7it)  
> 

**Scratch your name into my soul**

 

**Chapter 01: Tuesday**

// _I’m in town. Actually I’m in your flat and I’m bored. I expect you to be here in 30 min to fuck me. Otherwise your sheets will get dirty._ //

Killian stares at the short message, first slightly confused, then amused. It’s from an unknown number, but there’s only one person in the world who would send him a text like this. 

He smirks. 

Others would maybe call it rude, impertinent, bold, would certainly think it a trick, a joke, a sick challenge.

He thinks it’s just practical- and quite effective. 

Because he can already feel a slight heat in his lower region at the mere thought of ~~fucking~~ having sex. 

Shaking his head (and clearing away the very ~~un~~ wanted pictures those words create), he goes to put his phone back into his pocket when another message appears on the screen.

A picture:

long legs, clad in used jeans, placed upon a wooden table that holds a mug of black coffee. 

( _His_ pair of jeans. _His_ wooden table. _His_ mug. His worn-out leather couch. _His_ concrete floor. _His_ flat.)

// _Just in case..._ //

A reminder he doesn’t need. 

A verification he doesn’t need. 

Killian puts the phone away. Packs his laptop, his other stuff, tells his assistant to go home and leaves the studio. 

One more picture while he walks to the nearest underground station. One more on the ride from Tower Hill to King’s Cross, one more on the short walk from the station to his flat. 

All of them perfectly document various stages of undressing. 

The first reveals collarbones. The second presents Killian with a softly defined chest. The third serves the graceful arch of an elbow, the shadows of a naked stomach (it’s a little bit blurred… focusing on the background instead of the body he wants to see - but he isn’t even sure if that’s intention or just misfortune). 

But every picture tells him another story. A story of how much he’s been _missed_. A story of how impatiently, badly he’s wanted. 

He goes, even if he felt bad half an hour ago for not thinking twice, for leaving his work, for obeying instantly. For giving in (weak and needy and desperate).

Every picture is proof that he’s not the only one who has counted the months and weeks and sometimes even the days. 

 

___

 

Opening the metal door of his loft and finding Peter in front of the windows is one. 

His feet are bare on the cold concrete. He’s almost naked, trousers (his!) low on the hips. Green eyes lock on him the second Killian steps into the room; as he places the cat down on the windowsill, they follow every movement while Killian sets down his bag and walks over to him.

Kisses him. 

~~Kisses him.~~

Leaning forward, pressing his whole body tightly against him, Peter raises an eyebrow. 

“You’re late.”

“Just because you’re bored doesn’t mean I leave everything behind.”

“I was just about to start without you. Be glad that Cat distracted me.”

“Shut up.”

Ignoring the mocking complaints, Killian bows down to mouth a path over the side of the sunlit neck, over shoulders until he reaches the upper arms. He’s almost unable to suppress his delight. 

The scent is familiar and foreign all the same - so very welcome - and excites more than just his sense of smell.

It shouldn’t arouse him so much, this small part of someone’s body, this tiny patch of skin. 

~~It drives him crazy.~~

He just… wants to trail his nose over it. Smell the scent. Tickle it. Taste it. Kiss it. Lick it all over. Suck the smooth sweet skin until his marks are everywhere. 

But a sudden laugh stops him; a hand upon his chin. 

“You may be getting off on this, my dearest Killian, but I’m not.”

Ripping his gaze away from the delicious goose bumps he created, he meets pale green eyes and demanding brows. 

“Really? Because it actually looks like you are.” 

He smirks, leaves behind a glistening moist part on Peter’s neck when he wanders higher. Breathes in deeply. 

“It’s not quite unpleasant… yet, it would certainly be _more_ pleasant if you’d start to undress as well.” Fingers slide from his neck underneath his shirt, grabbing his shoulders. 

“Impatient, aren’t you?”

“When have I ever been _patient_?!”

Killian pulls away, ignoring him, enjoying the unwilling curl of lips, the way fingers claw instinctively deeper, tighter into his skin while he starts with the buttons of his shirt. 

For about two seconds he considers putting on a show, but he quickly dismisses the idea when the boy in front of him shrugs out of his jeans and boxers, standing stark naked before him. 

Skin, limbs. 

Softly sculpted muscles and bones. 

Stretching in the clear daylight, stepping out of the fabric pooling around his feet, Peter looks at him.

Killian holds his breath. Forgets about his shirt. 

He has seen this countless times (and it’s just skin after all! Nothing he doesn’t see every fucking day) and it still makes the blood sing in his veins. 

Because _this_ skin is special… and he missed it very much. 

“Like what you see?”

Not bothering with an answer, he leans forward and kisses the cheeky mouth. Tender and lush lips open up underneath, forming a short smile - sweet and alluring like the raspberry chewing gum Peter loves. So sweet and alluring he could almost forget about the vicious and harsh words that sometimes spill out. 

Like heaven and hell at the same time.

Now they are only heaven: kissing back slowly and almost hesitantly, without urgency, without trickery. 

How they always kiss after being apart for such a long time. 

“I’ll take that for a yes.” 

“Shut up.”

And Peter shuts up, shows Killian the dangerous, beautiful smile that has been the reason they’re here after all, and slides his hand under the waistband of his trousers. Searching, finding. Listens raptly to the satisfied and totally pleased sound that escapes him - both of them - when he palms Killian in his boxers. 

Dark blond hair whispers through Killian’s fingertips, weightless and tickling like mist. Warm breaths of air grace the side of his neck, his shoulders. Teeth scrape over his throat. 

Then everything is gone: Peter sinks to his knees, hastily struggles with the buttons of Killian’s jeans, fumbles them down, down, away and buries his face between his legs. 

Arousal hits him like a wave, forceful and crashing.

Killian’s knees buckle. He has to lean forward, support his weight on the glass of the floor-high windows, get a hold. Leaves ugly stains on the glass. 

He doesn’t care. 

Bright daylight streams into the room, illuminating Peter’s skin, contrasting the milky plains of his body. 

Anyone could see them. Anyone could see Peter naked before him, serving him, caressing him, taking him apart. 

He doesn’t care. 

Breathless. This boy still takes his breath away every time he sees him. 

Slipping the last layer of fabric down, he looks up at him and stops. 

Before. Finally. Really. Touching. Him. 

(The dangerous beautiful smile. Flashes of white teeth, of pink tongue licking lush lips. The artificial emphasized moan.)

“Undress. I want to see you, Killian.” 

Hands part his legs and stroke up and down the insides of his thighs. 

“Get naked. I _need_ to see you..”

Mouths tiny - too tiny - kisses into his stomach. 

“I’ve dreamed about this since boarding that fucking plane in Milan.”

“Considering that could be only this morning, that’s not a very long time.”

Peter rolls his eyes, mocking and probably cursing the fact that Killian still can form proper thoughts even with him upon his knees and in front of him. 

“Fine… I dreamed about it ever since boarding that fucking plane three months ago and leaving London. Is that better?”

“Tztz… anybody ever tell you lying is rude?”

“Anybody ever tell you that you have to give something for getting something in return?” 

Amused and aroused, Killian watches Peter - Peter’s lips, Peter’s kisses. Remarkable eyebrows raised expectantly: they are thinner than usual and maybe darker. Convinced he’ll still find traces of powder and makeup, he traces their graceful arch with his thumb. 

Smells the dry and artificial scent of hairspray and notices the light brown smears at his fingertips. Brushes through the cool strands of hair and follows the line of his neck downwards to the place between his shoulders. Rubs the tense muscles there, waiting, wanting for Peter to give in, lean closer. 

“You’re at _my_ place, you called me away from _my_ work… I think that should be enough giving on my side for now.” 

Lips curl, then a short nod.

“Because I’m feeling gracious today…” 

And then there’s nothing but the warm paradise that is the boy’s mouth. Caressing, licking, swallowing him. Hands around his waist, guiding him. Holding him back, pulling him closer. Kisses rain over his every inch while green eyes greedily drink in his every reaction. Long fingers covering and discovering every part like it’s their first time. 

It leaves him trembling and shivering. His whole body warm and tingling, blood racing with arousal, groin tight from the effort of holding back, of coming too soon, too sudden. He wants to enjoy this sight, this sensation. Prolong it. 

(The boy is far too good at this. Or maybe he just missed him even more than he thought.)

He wants to touch more than shoulders while coming. Wants to be inside first, wants to look into green eyes and see the pleasure. 

But suddenly everything is colder. Lips slide away, only touching him with the tiniest (too tiny, too frustrating) brushes of skin, placing the gentle (too gentle too small) fracture of a kiss upon his tip. Forms the same dangerous beautiful smile again. Blood stops flowing, breath catches in his throat. 

Bright eyes, fluttering lashes, indecent tongue.

 ~~Far. Too. Good.~~

And just when Killian is about to swear, to curse (him and his damn talented mouthlipstongue) the boy smiles, but not like before. 

A real one. Amused and honestly delighted. 

“You should be glad that I like your taste too much to stop.” 

Like lipstick, he carefully applies some of the colourless precome upon his lips; he sighs, but not like before. 

A real one. Relieved and honestly delighted. 

“Really… Killian. There’s no one that tastes like you. I could come just from smelling you.” 

And when he swallows him this time there’s nothing fake, nothing for show. It’s just for pleasure. Every movement, every second, every touch is about them. 

About getting off. 

About being together. 

About pleasuring himself and the other. 

Coming. Together. 

 

___

 

Bright daylight. 

It streams through the high windows, warm and comfortable, paints lines and crosses of shadows on the concrete floor of his loft. It doesn’t reach the mattress on the small platform on which they’re still lying. 

Warm and comfortable. 

Peter’s back pressed against his front.

Peter’s cat pressed against the boy’s pale stomach. 

Both purring contently under his touch. 

“You really told the doorman you’re my brother!? Because he was quite curious about your non existant Irish but sometimes still very prominent Czech accent.”

“I spent a lot of time in New York and Prague…You’d rather I told him I’m your boyfriend?”

“No… and you’re not my boyfriend.”

“No. I’m not.”

Without turning around, without ceasing his attentions to Cat’s black fur, Peter shuffles closer, slightly rubbing his back against him - rubbing his butt against Killian’s groin. Killian can’t be sure if this is intention or just a side effect of making more room for the cat. 

“Anyway… who’s the bitch you’re currently banging? I’ve found her stuff in the bathroom.”

“Her name’s Aurora and she’s no bitch. Actually she’s very nice, you’d like her.”

A hiss so sudden and full of barely suppressed anger that Killian can feel the cat cringe under his hand, alarmed by the abrupt change of mood. “I’d hate her!” 

“Careful… one would think you’re jealous,” 

He whispers it in Peter’s ear so quietly he can literally feel the shivers running down the bow of the fragile spine. 

“I’m not.” 

His hand gets caught in an iron grip; nails dig into the softness of his wrist.

“Maybe I just don’t want to share.”

“That’s the overall concept of being jealous.”

He smirks at Peter’s impatient huff, signalizing him to change the topic. Sometimes his reactions are too adorable. They can be quite irritating and aggravating as well, but not with both of them stretched out together, still sweaty and warm from their lovemaking. Legs entangled, arms around the precious body. Nose buried in nice-smelling hair, slightly curled in neck and temples. 

“She doesn’t live here, does she?”

“Occasionally…”

“She’s got a key?”

“Yes.”

Peter turns tentatively, half on his back - Cat apparently almost forgotten. Green eyes watch him calmly. Voice flat and cold, casual like he’s talking about his lunch. “Then you’d better tell her she shouldn’t turn up here over the next four days. If I see her around I’ll scratch her face so she won’t recognize herself in a mirror.” 

Killian laughs out loud. Shaking his head, he tightens his hold around the boy’s chest, to keep him from lashing out at him, to have him nearer. 

“What a good thing you’re not jealous.”

Placing his leg over Peter’s thigh and pressing himself into the cleft between his cheeks he can almost see the protests dying, feel the tension fading. 

“So you’re staying for four days?”

“Like I informed you.” 

“Oh really? When?”

“About twenty seconds ago.”

“Maybe I’ve got other plans?”

Hips start to rub against him; small, very slow circles. Agonizingly arousing slow circles. Hands stretch out to get him closer, ruffling through his hair. 

“Then maybe you should cancel them.”

Bare arms, bare skin. Lightly toned and delicious, presenting him the wonderful arch of his elbow. 

“What if I don’t want to?”

Smells of the last remaining traces of expensive perfume. Of sunshine on a cold winter’s day, of biscuits and fresh baked rolls, raspberries and naked warmth. 

Of Peter. 

It never fails to electrify him. 

“Cancel them.”

Pressing his nose into the sleek curve, Killian inhales deeply, follows the bluish hue of veins beneath the disturbingly thin skin, notices the beating of blood underneath. 

Licking over the soft blonde hairs, he can’t stop himself from sighing, can’t stop the sound of relief that escapes him. 

Heat spreads in his groin - can’t even be quieted by the fact that he already came twice this afternoon. He feels pleasantly exhausted, tired almost, spent. 

(Four days. He’ll have him for four days.)

(But four days aren’t nearly enough.)

So he bites and kisses, draws patterns with his teeth. Softly, so very softly- not _nearly_ enough to leave traces, proofs, marks (like he _desperately_ wants to.)

Killian makes his way upwards to the underside where the skin is so smooth and tender he doesn’t even dare to rub his beard stubble over it, only touches with lips and tongue, drinking in the fast sighs that give Peter away, the more frantic movements of his hips. The fluttering eyelids, the exposed throat. 

Fingers take and pull, guiding his right hand to the wonderful tight place between the boy’s legs so he can add the friction to make him come. 

Killian doesn’t register Cat sneaking away and neither does he care, he’s too lost with pleasing himself on the body stretched out against his own. Too lost in pleasing the body stretched out against his own. 

“Can I…? Please?” 

He knows he’s begging. 

(He doesn’t care.) 

Can’t care about anything else than _him_. _His_ skin. The blush of excitement on _his_ cheeks, the parted lips. Groin pushing feverishly into his palm. 

So open. So real. So honestly real. 

The frustrated shake of his head, the growl, the so. very. _d i s p l e a s e d_. sound. 

“I’ve got an appointment tomorrow.” 

Swallowing his curse, Killian instead kisses him. First the collarbones, then the hot and pulsating neck and finally the trembling lips. 

“When? When can I mark you?”

The amused chuckle, the fire in Peter’s eyes. 

“Friday… Friday. You can lick me all over. You can bite me. Mark me. You can come all over me so I can rub it into my skin. So that I can still smell it when I leave the next day…”

His voice is raw and throaty, barely able to form the words because he’s obviously picturing his fantasy. Torn apart between his desire to look into his eyes and the alluring wish to shut them - shut out the reality of this Tuesday afternoon - and just feel. 

Three months. Too long.

~~So long, they have almost broken this strong and beautiful boy.~~

Hips stutter when Peter spills into his hand. His body shivers in his arms, holding, clinging onto him. Breathing hot sighs into his ear, skin, mouth. Rolling them over so he covers him completely. Whispering claims of possession, while rubbing himself against Killian until he finally comes too. 

 

___

**End Chapter 01**


	2. Wednesday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everybody,
> 
> thanks for all your lovely comments! I still can’t believe there’s someone out there waiting for my story… You made a german girl very happy! ♥
> 
> I hope you like this chapter that finally contains some plot *cough* ( there is still a lot of sex though. ^.^ )
> 
> 1000 kisses and thanks to my beta-bee [ **Bee** ](http://archiveofourown.org/users/tatou/pseuds/tatou) ♥
> 
> And also thanks to [ **Tetila** ](http://archiveofourown.org/users/AwakeMySoul) (who insisted on more information on Killian and Peter’s background). 
> 
> Again, comments and critics would be lovely ♥

**Scratch your name into my soul**

 

**Chapter 02: Wednesday**

_  
He’d just come out of the shower and slipped into his jeans when he heard the front door open, the soft sounds of sneakers upon the concrete, the small clinks of keys._

_“Hey, I’m home.”_

_Killian swallowed his curse and left the bathroom._ This _was going to be ugly._

_On a good day he’d have probably considered this scene amusing. But Peter was unpredictable most times and especially the last few weeks he’d been constantly annoyed or angered about almost everything that hadn’t turned out the way he liked._

_Very ugly._

_Peter stood in the middle of the living room, one hand on the railing leading to the sleeping gallery._

_Staring intently towards the bed, the smile on his lips was perfectly sweet. The green eyes were cool - cold, betraying everything friendly about the smile._

_He stared at Susannah; still in bed, the sheets wrapped around her body but didn’t conceal the fact that she was naked. Her brunette locks were tangled and messy, cheeks faintly flushed, lips glistening and bitten red._

_“You must be Peter? Killian told me he had a guest.”_

_Peter stared at Killian: half naked, hair still wet, feeling guilty even though there was no reason to._

_“Oh, really? Because he didn’t tell me he had a guest.”_

_Peter only spoke to him. He had made his conclusions and like always, he was right. And, like always, he would make Killian pay for it._

_On a good day he’d have probably considered this game amusing._

_On a bad day like this one… he thought it_ thrilling _._

_Killian walked over and leaned into the other railing - mirroring Peter’s stance as he introduced them to each other._

_(Green eyes piercingly cold, burning with barely restrained fury.)_

_~~Why did it feel like foreplay?~~ _

_Maybe Killian should’ve felt awkward. Maybe he shouldn’t have enjoyed the situation. But he couldn’t help it- the boy was burning with jealousy and it was beautiful._

_~~It was foreplay.~~ _

_Susannah’s innocent chatter - like they hadn’t been caught, like Peter wasn’t watching her as if he pictured her already dead - was irritating, a constant happy voice, numb to the heavy hoarse accent._

_“I know you… you’re the boy from that photo series Killian did some time ago. That robot boy! You look so much younger than in the pictures!”_

_She went along commenting and complaining about Killian’s strictness on set, about his obsession for details and control and perfection while she fumbled for her bra; the laugh she released when she finally found it under the sheets was small and not in the least embarrassed - the way only a model could laugh: completely unaware and unashamed about the fact that she was almost naked as she walked down the stairs and disappeared into the bathroom._

_But Killian didn’t care any longer. It wasn’t that she wasn’t beautiful or that he didn’t like her…it was just that he’d found something more interesting. More fascinating._

_“You’re early,” he turned to Peter. “Didn’t expect you this soon.”_

_“That was quite obvious.”_

_“You could’ve called first?”_

_“You could’ve put a sign on the handle. Besides… I’m living here too.” Shoving one of Susannah’s heels away with his foot, Peter took a step closer. “And referring to me as a “guest” wasn’t very nice. Actually, it was very impolite… especially since I intended to make you dinner.”_

_“You don’t even know how ‘impolite’ is spelled and even less the meaning of that word! At least you could’ve greeted her.”_

_Killian followed him to the kitchen, hiding his smile as he opened the fridge to grab himself a bottle of water._

_Kitten - still without a proper name - watched them both from her favorite spot on the windowsill._

_“Why should I be nice to someone I can’t stand?”_

_“You don’t know her.”_

_“Well, it's not like you know her either.”_

_Peter rummaged through the cupboards and gathered plates and napkins to set them onto the counter. Susannah stepped out of the bathroom, make-up perfect again and still only clad in her underwear._

_Her smile was the same innocent joyful one that drew Killian to her this morning, before the shoot, open and full of life. Peter was right: he knew nothing about her. Nothing but the shape of her lips, the texture of her skin or the small gasps she had made when he had kissed her thighs. Nothing but the few moments they had shared, the things he didn’t think about when he was with her, the emotions she made him feel when he was within her._

_So Killian helped her into the frilly white blouse, the worn out jeans. Kissed her earlobe and lips, because he may not know her but he liked her and the time they spent together (and if that added more fuel to the raging jealousy in Peter he wouldn’t complain either). Offered her the trenchcoat and bid her goodbye._

_Peter’s face was a mask of pure, smug content when he came back to the kitchen counter, eyes hard and intent - Killian could almost hear him thinking ~~plotting, planning~~. But, deciding to ignore it, he gestured towards the various boxes on the table._

_“Chinese take away?! That’s your interpretation of ‘making dinner’?”_

_“You know I can’t cook. Besides… even if I could you’d probably end up with food poisoning anyway.”_

_Killian took the container with fried chicken noodles and shoveled some onto his plate, unable to avoid Peter’s gaze. Ignoring the chopsticks, he chose a fork but didn’t start yet, waited for the boy instead._

_“Should I be worried?” He smirked._

_The answer was a short, annoyed snort, a quick blur of movement with which Peter picked a piece of meat from his plate and fed it to the cat._

_“Do you want to tell me when you’re finally going to fuck me, or would you rather want to talk about the fact that you’re still into your brother’s wife?”_

_Killian stopped eating; there was a sick feeling in his stomach._

_“It’s totally your choice. But don’t think I’m stupid enough not to notice that every girl you bring home could be a younger and thinner version of your brother’s wife. And don’t you dare deny it… I saw you looking at her at that barbecue a few weeks ago.”_

_He finished his bite; it tasted bitter and dry._

_“Were you two a thing? Did you betray her with one of those brainless bitches and she left you… or did she never want you? Preferred your older brother because he’s got morals and integrity and sense of family? And does_ he _know?”_

_He looked up, meeting raised eyebrows._

_Of course Peter had to find out - he was good at reading people. He could read their minds and dreams and wishes before they even know about them, awake longings so deeply buried and draw them to the surface. He could play with people’s desires and weaknesses, use them for his own likes, manipulate them._

_Maybe that was why he was so good on pictures, in this business. (Because that’s why Killian is so good in this business.)_

_Ever since that first day the boy had been able to decipher him better than anybody else. All his hidden secrets and feelings - suddenly they were no longer so well hidden ~~and he felt strangely open and vulnerable~~. _

_“What do you think?”_

_A small chuckle - the childish laugh that’ll always remind him of the first night, after their first photoshoot. Of morning fog and wet cobblestones._

_“I think you take the first one… which is perfectly fine with me. I don’t care about your past.”_

_Killian could almost feel the casual brush on his skin, the finger tracing his bottom lip._

_“So… tell me, when are you going to_ f u c k _me?”_

_He laughed. Couldn’t help it._

_Because Peter changed his moods and motives like the wind._

_Because it had always been this way ever since Peter kind of moved in with him. Ever since that remarkable first night he had made his intentions very clear._

_Because it was a constantly returning joke between the two of them._

_~~It was foreplay.~~ _

_And when he leaned back and shook his head again (amused and just slightly turned on) then it was only to conceal the bitter and sick truth._

_He_ was _going to fuck him._

_~~He’s not a good person. He couldn’t act against his wishes and desires.~~ _

_And when he reclined, turned away to escape the curious prying fingers then it was only to see the temper and the determination in the green eyes. To make him more eager._

_“When you’re of age… or when it doesn’t feel like I’m taking advantage of you anymore.”_

_“Tell me if I’m wrong… but actually I am the one living in your flat, eating your food, using your shower and I was the one working in a fucking burger restaurant. So if you ask me, I am the one taking advantage of you.”_

_“Tell me if_ I _am wrong… but those are exactly the reasons why I would be the one taking advantage of you.”_

_Going back to eating, he watched Peter’s reaction (the teeth biting his lip, the tongue poking the insides of his cheek, the impatient clicking of the chopstick against the porcelain)._

_“Fine… I’ll move out.”_

_Killian raised his eyebrows._

_“Don’t you think that’s a little bit over the top? I’m sure you’ll find someone else who would gladly fuck you.”_

_“Don’t you think if I had put an honest effort into this ‘_ game _’ you’d already have fucked me?”_

_~~Peter is right.~~ _

_“But don’t worry, I’m not that desperate. My agency thinks it’ll probably be better for me if I’m working in New York, they say London is not the best market for Czech models. So I’m leaving in two or three weeks.”_

_“Wow, that’s... big news. Congrats.”_

_He meant it. ~~Really.~~ _

_It was better for both of them. They were both too self-centered and too selfish, need freedom._

_“Yeah, soon the flat will be yours again and you can bring home as many girls as you want and fuck them everywhere you want.”_

_“Shut up.”_

_And Peter did._

_Later he settled himself beside Killian on the couch, naked underneath the white terrycloth of his bathrobe, smelling of raspberries and soap and skin, talked about the photoshoot and New York while caressing the kitten’s black fur._

_Later he leaned against his shoulder, buried his face in Killian’s neck. Fell asleep with his nose and mouth pressed onto his skin, fingers resting on his stomach. Warm and soft._

_Later he came into his bed, naked without the white terrycloth of his bathrobe, pressed himself against Killian’s back, told him how much he loved his scent (musky and male), whispered his fantasies into the shell of Killian’s ear._

_(Later he rubbed his erection against Killian’s ass, caressed and held him. Turned him over and climbed on his thighs. Kissed him while moving on top of him. Came on his chest and refused to part from him.)_

 

___

 

It’s dark when he steps into his flat the next evening. No signs of Peter, no signs that he has been here at all. 

Probably he’s still at work or maybe out partying. 

It’s not like they have an arrangement or appointment (or a date). 

So he changes into his running clothes and heads out for his usual round to clear his head. He has been unable to concentrate for the whole day, neither on his work nor his next exhibition, his thoughts returned constantly to Aurora’s short and ~~too~~ understanding reply to his text this morning. He feels like an idiot, like an egoistic asshole… not because of what he did, but because he really didn’t couldn’t bring himself to care _more_.

(It’s not that he promised her anything. He told her right from the start that he isn’t good in stuff like that - _relationships_.) 

His mind is constantly occupied with the young man currently back in his life. The four (three!) days he’s going to be in his life once more. 

The way he submitted so easily - to memories and visions from his past, to pictures and fantasies of a future that is not possible. 

Peter’s here right now ~~and he’ll be gone in three days~~. 

Returning from his run and seeing the illuminated windows of his apartment, he slows down his steps and looks at his mobile. He’s been away far longer than he intended, has completely forgotten about time, lost in his thoughts and the calming darkness of the nightly Regents Park. 

There’s loud music greeting him, the endless and hypnotizing sound constructs he listens to late at night while working. Every light in his loft is switched on and television shows blurring green images of a documentary about rain forests, without any sound. Both together create a surreal and tranquilizing pulse while Peter, still clad in his white bathrobe, works on something on the kitchen island. 

Killian showers quickly - a part of him is afraid the other will want to join him, will confront him again. And he needs that. He needs distance. From people, from life. 

And most of all from Peter. 

He needs to wash away the remaining ever-repeating thoughts that are still bothering his mind, clouding his veins. 

But when he’s finished Peter is already lounging on his couch, lazily watching Killian empty half a bottle of water and pour himself a glass of whiskey before turning his notebook on.

The music is quieter now, although now there’s the straight and narrating tone of the documentary added. The lights are dimmed, greenish from the television. 

He starts to work. 

Cat brushes around his legs; all warm and tickling fur. Caressing him, searching for contact. Her presence is soothing. With her comfortable warmth in his lap, her breathing against his stomach, he finally finds the concentration he lacked all day. 

“How long do you want to work?” 

“Until I’m finished.” 

Killian feels a small smile in the slightly irritated and sulking voice. Silently wonders that he’s now - here - surrounded with noise from the stereo and the television, flickering lights, the purring cat in his lap and Peter’s impatience and occasional huffs because he doesn’t pay attention to him - able to work while all the time in his studio with it’s air of concentration and the productive atmosphere, he couldn’t form a single thought regarding his current project. 

“And _when_ are you finished? ‘Cause I’m already starting to get bored.” The emphasis is clearly on the last word, so he doesn’t need to look up to know that Peter has gotten up. From the corner of his eye he notes him walking over, the casual and languid stroll of a cat - still unsure if it’s out for prey or just taking a look at chirping bird upon the tree. 

Then there’s a warm hand in his neck, playing with the wet strands there. A pliant body in the chair next to him. Then there are smooth and naked legs entangled with his own. A teasing mouth on the shell of his ear. 

“And you don’t want me to get bored, don’t you?”

A tickling tongue flickers inside. Licks once, twice, before it’s gone and a content head lays itself upon his shoulder. 

(Not out for prey. Just taking a look.)

(Putting the bird on the alert.)

“You should learn to occupy yourself… I can’t always be there to entertain you. And since I already left work early yesterday to do that…”

The body shifts closer, breath ghosts over his shoulder. Fingers trail towards his stomach until they find solace in Cat’s soft fur. 

(The way she turns towards the caress, presses her paws against Killian’s thigh.) 

“Maybe you could finish your work while I entertain myself watching you…” 

(Not out for prey. Only taking a look at the bird. Too lazy to do anything.) 

It’s surprisingly easy to concentrate again. It never was before. Peter’s presence used to be arousing, exciting, aggravating. Provoking. 

This is _new_. 

But _this_ is good. 

Slowly he chooses his favourites, comparing the various settings and perspectives with each other, adapting the colours and contrasts of the photographs until he’s satisfied. Although he refuses to change them too much it still seems like cheating, lying, every time he edits his pictures afterwards, so he tries to keep the changes as minimal as possible, just subtly bringing out a special mood of colour or highlighting the atmosphere he wants to create. 

“Sometimes it surprises me that you still get bookings… with your expensive shooting ideas and the way you always destroy the beautiful clothes.”

Peter lifts his head, takes a sip from Killian’s drink - careful to place his lips exactly where his have been. 

“But on the other hand… I’d wonder even more if you wouldn’t get any bookings. Your work is stunning. Disturbingly beautiful.”

The voice is quiet, thoughtful, like he’s very far away. Dreamlike. Lips still pressed against the rim of the glass. 

“Honestly, it is. I think I would recognize your work anywhere. Your photo series are always very special and unique… the colours or better the lack of them, the way you arrange everything. It’s got this certain touch of darkness, of sadness. Like an eerie dream, a fascinating nightmare in which you want to lose yourself forever. No one can make pictures like this.”

Killian looks at the screen presenting him evening forest, the black water of a small stream with the almost naked body of a bathing woman, shivering wet, flimsy dress soaked, skin smeared with dirt and autumn leaves. The bluish grey colours of the approaching night a wonderful contrast to the white skin and red hair. 

“It’s breathtaking.”

“Thanks… I guess.”

Peter’s praise feels strangely warm in his stomach. He knows he’s good, but hearing it from this boy, who’s one of the most self-centered and egoistic persons he’s ever met, is something different. 

“I love how your photography is always about the people and not about the clothes they’re wearing. And you still have a thing for the eyes, don’t you? The emotions playing in her features… how she’s frightened and intrigued at the same time. Lost in the woods, hunted and haunted and in love with the hunter. She’s really pretty. I don’t know her. Did you also find her on the streets?”

“Actually no…” he hesitates. “That’s Aurora.”

He simply has to see ~~drink in, savour~~ Peter’s reaction. The way his eyes turn into slits, the smile changes into a sneer - just the tiniest fragment of a second, then the smile is back, the eyes soft again. 

“You didn’t tell me she’s a model.”

“You didn’t want to talk about her.”

“And I still don’t want to.”

Shoving the glass and the laptop away, Peter stands up, places himself between the computer and Killian on the edge of the metal table, blocking his sight on the screen.

“I told you, I don’t want to see her. And I don’t want to hear her name from your lips. I don’t care what you’re doing with her or to her. I don’t care that she lives here when I’m away. Because I can’t change it. But now… when I’m here, you’re with me. You’re mine.”

He wants to protest, to say something. Anything. 

But his heart rages with fire, fierce delight at the boy’s jealousy, the boy’s wish to possess him, to have Killian for himself… it’s thrilling to be wanted so passionately and completely. 

But it’s choking, too. Asphyxiating. Claustrophobic. Makes him feel like a caged animal. 

He can’t deny the sad and suffocating fact that this is the truth. Nothing but the truth. He - the smallest part of Killian- will always belong to Peter.

He may not want that. (Because _Killian_ belongs to no one. He loves his freedom, his independency, his solitude.) But never before has he given himself so openly and willingly to another person. 

From the first moment he met the boy in the small burger restaurant three years ago. 

Warm hands around his face startle him from his thoughts. A persuasive tongue licks over his lips and brings him back to the now. Legs spread and are placed beside his hips, the white bathrobe splits open to reveal distracting creamy skin - Peter’s impatience has made him even more eager, more aggressive than usual. 

“ ~~ _You’re mine._~~ ”

Eyes wide open, he stares at Killian, who realizes with slight surprise that he actually managed to avoid this for the whole evening. Looking at him. Drinking in the sight of Peter in his flat, in his bathrobe. 

_How could he?_

There are still some faint traces of mascara under Peter’s left eye even though he already showered. Lips red from biting them. The hair darker than usual without the ashen shimmer… a startling and harsh contrast to the lightly toned skin. 

Different.

“They dyed it for the shoot. Do you like it?”

No. 

“It makes you look cold and cruel.”

A smirk. A chuckle. Another whiskey aromated kiss. 

“I _am_ cold and cruel.”

“Not when you’re with me.”

And with this Peter slides into his lap. Presses against him. Arms, hands. Breath and saliva. Everything warm and naked and skin and more skin. Open and smiling and biting and embracing him. Quiet and moaning and sighing and whispering and listening. Arousing him with this smell of shampoo and mint, his taste of burned wood and raspberries and gummibears. Not bothering to unsheath him from his sweatpants, from his boxers. Leaning against him, searching, finding and kissing and licking into his mouth. Quivering and thrusting and clawing and holding.

Killian’s caged between thighs and arms and hands. Fingers trail over his cheekbones, over his brows, over his lips and chest. Gaze locked upon smile and lips and tongue. Eyes finding green ones, wide open and pupils blown in their hasty need. His erection captured in his trousers, burning from their hot closeness and the intense _longing_ to be inside. Rubbing in vain against the two layers of fabric.

So close, yet so far.

Both of them hiss in frustration. Neither has the patience to change it, to rip himself from the other to eliminate the offending barrier. To part from the other long enough so Peter could sink onto him ~~so he could sink into Peter’s heat~~. 

So he has to sate his hunger for the boy’s warmth with his hands. Slips them under the bathrobe and lets them roam over shoulder blades and spine and spread bottom cheeks.

(The way Peter sits more upright, stretching underneath his touch like Cat - wanting to be closer, prolong the sensation.)

Tracing every accessible patch of skin with his tongue, tickling it, tasting it. Rejoicing at the reactions he elicits, always new and familiar at the same time, never ~~everever~~ getting enough of them, of the teeth in his neck when he bites down in ecstasy, the flickering movements of his hips, the desperate sound when he’s finally coming all over Killian’s shirt. 

(Leaving marks so deep and angry red that it would probably hurt if he wasn’t so close to coming as well.)

Of the moist breath fogging over his ear, his cheeks. Of the lapping, almost too sweet kisses raining upon the corners of his mouth in Peter’s aftermath.

The amused and tired and satisfied laughter. 

“Looks like we’ve made a mess.”

“We!?” Killian raises his eyebrows mockingly, twisting his hips upwards, indicatingly, emphasizingly.

The amused and devilish and beautiful laughter. 

“Right… I’ll take care of you…”

Peter lifts himself from Killian’s lap - leaving him suddenly cold and shockingly alone without the precious friction. The soft and tender goodnight kiss placed upon his forehead another tease. 

“... as soon as you come to bed.”

 

___

**End Chapter 02**


	3. Thursday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everybody,
> 
> a long(er) chapter before I’m going on a long holiday. It’s the longest chapter and the one I’m most proud of. I really hope you like it. 
> 
> Glitter, hearts and thanks to [ **Tetila** ](http://archiveofourown.org/users/AwakeMySoul) for talking and inspiring me for the flashback scene. 
> 
> And of course to my sweet beta [ **Bee** ](http://archiveofourown.org/users/tatou/pseuds/tatou) ♥
> 
> There’s a [ **tag** ](http://seawaterinmyveins.tumblr.com/tagged/scratch-your-name-into-my-soul%3A-extras) on my tumblr, with pictures, poetry and music that inspired or reminded me of this story. 
> 
> I would love to hear how you liked my favorite chapter ♥
> 
> PS: the scene in the restaurant is maybe a bit inspired by the one in “Leon: The professional”, which is a setting that makes my mind crazy with Captain Pan ideas.  
> PPS: the scenes in italics are flashbacks

**Scratch your name into my soul**

 

**Chapter 03: Thursday**   
_  
When Killian opened the door and found the boy outside - dressed in a pair of worn out, partly torn jeans and a too big leather jacket - he was glad he decided not to do this in his hotel room._

_The amused looks Elena gave him while she slipped past them, the raised eyebrows, the mocking voice (‘_ Have fun, darlings. _’) were enough. He didn’t want to imagine the ones from the hotel staff if he had taken an underaged boy to his room._

_He felt strangely awkward when Peter stepped into the studio, letting his eyes wander with casual and well hidden curiosity. Of course he knew there was no reason to feel that way, because they were just planning to do some exemplary shots, to try out how the boy would look, just a few pictures he could send to the editor._

_But suddenly it felt… ~~Wrong. Right.~~ _ Fatal _._

_In all those years working in this business he had heard the usual stories - the fashion fairytale of cinderella working in the kitchens of a cheap restaurant or just walking down the street when she accidentally caught the eye of a famous fashion photographer, who instantly recognizes her potential and makes her a star._

_He had never believed it, and he still didn’t._

_There are no fairytales in this world._

_Unpacking his camera, he watched Peter take off the jacket, revealing the simple white shirt Kilian had told him to wear. He nodded and walked over to switch on the lights, adjust the reflecting screen. Even though it was a foreign studio, foreign materials, these were familiar gestures that helped him to focus._

_~~He wasn’t nervous~~. _

_It just felt…_ d i f f e r e n t _when Peter took his place in front of the grey background, squinting his eyes against the bright lights._

_But just before Killian could say something he opened them and looked directly into the camera.  
There was no smile, neither on his lips nor in his eyes. It was a challenging and bold expression, a little cold. A little arrogant. It was the same expression that had made him notice the boy in the first place. _

_Stepping closer and gesturing him to turn sideways earned Killien the smallest of smiles. Quickly replaced with a unwilling twitch in the corners of the mouth._

_Yet it was enough; he’d seen it._

_He’d captured it._

_~~And it was beautiful.~~ _

_~~And even more beautiful was the short spark of anger in the green eyes because he had given away this smile~~. _

_He shot the typical pictures for a comp card: portrait, full face, then a few from afar to get the full body, and then he did a short series of close-ups. He hadn’t planned that. It just…_

__h a p p e n e d.

_The contrast of pale skin and ashen blond hair. The lashes hiding green eyes. Eyebrows, cheekbones, chin line. The curve of lips. (The smooth velvet texture of skin, the shadowy blue under the eyes, the sharp delicate arch of throat.)_

_The boy was like shards of glass: beautiful and shimmering, but razor sharp and dangerous._

_They didn’t talk except for the very rare instructions Killian had to give. But he liked the silence, the atmosphere of concentration. (He liked how easy everything was. How Peter became comfortable so quickly in front of the camera. How he seemed to anticipate Killian’s intentions and ideas.) The only sounds were the clicking of the camera, the soft rustle of fabric, the quiet thud as he changed the lens._

_When he turned to his bag to pack the camera away, to tell the boy they were done, he almost felt an unease he couldn’t explain - almost like a bang of regret._

_These pictures were supposed to be a test only. If his editor liked their outcome, liked Peter… than maybe there would be a chance of working with him again._

_But there are no fairytales in this world._

_~~Even though these few moments, these few pictures he had taken, felt lifechanging~~. _

_Then there were soft damped footsteps behind him. Not very close. A movement in the corner of his eyes. A pair of old sneakers stopping beside him._

_Expecting the boy waiting for his payment, Killian looked up. He had already told him he couldn’t pay much - enough to buy himself something nice, enough to make up for the loss of payment because he had to switch the night shift._

_But instead he met questioningly raised eyebrows, the small provoking smile before he looked quickly to the grey screen again._

_Without waiting for him, Peter grabbed something from Elena’s work table and walked off to his previous position._

_Still irritated, still wondering, Killian stood up. Curious and amused, he removed the lens cover again and observed as Peter opened a can of black paint._

_Of course Killian knew he should stop him. Elena probably wanted to use the paint for her own shooting; because he shouldn’t get a borrowed studio dirty. Because Peter could never get his hands clean enough to work the other day._

_But he didn’t._

_Completely silent he stood by and watched in fascination how Peter dipped his hands into the paint and embraced himself. Smearing blackness over his shirt, his arms, his neck._

_Without opposition he stood by and took picture after picture._

_Streaks of black, fingerprints on fabric, on skin._

_Eyes bright with eagerness and intense with life._

_While the boy removed the shirt, covered the naked chest with his hands. For the first time - and Killian was certain it wouldn’t last very long - insecure, thoughtful. Lips became soft, the gaze lost it’s fire._

_The dulled light made him look more frail. The darker shadows made his bones more sharp._

_(He looked breakable.)_

_(Beautiful and shimmering, without the sharpness and the painful strength like before.)_

_(Lost and vulnerable like before.)_

_Again, it lasted only seconds. But he had seen it._

_And it was so precious. So special._

_It felt like stealing something from the boy. Taking something from Peter that he had guarded so fiercely. That he didn’t want to reveal. That he trusted Killian with._

_So he licked his lips, pretended he hadn’t seen it (not daring to irritate the boy, to anger him, to repel him)._

_They didn’t talk. Not one single word._

_Maybe because Peter’s english was too bad, maybe because there wasn’t anything to say. ~~Maybe because it would’ve destroyed these moments~~. _

_And maybe that was the reason he didn’t stop Peter when he unbuttoned his jeans and dropped them, with his boxers in tow._

_He couldn’t. He had lost his ability to speak._

_Of course he’d done nude photography before. Naked men, naked women._

_Yet this was… different. (It could get him to prison. It was_ dangerous _.)_

_The way Peter undressed, stood naked in front of him. Uncovered every inch of his skin without doubt, without question._

_The way he appeared strong and independent as well as fragile and lonely._

_(He would deny it later, but he swore he heard something inside him break. Felt something inside him melt.)_

_In all those years as fashion photographer… it had never been more than a job. Something he was good in and something that had been easy. Convenient. He loved beauty and beautiful women. He loved money and the advantages that came with it._

_Never before had he felt like this._

_(He wanted to help Peter, show him the world, the possibilities he had, show him off like something rare and beautiful. ~~He wanted to hide him, to protect him~~. To keep him away from everything that had made him so cold and calculating and controlled. ~~To keep him for himself~~.) _

_And maybe that was the reason he didn’t stop Peter when he took one of the ropes laying at the side and looped them around his wrists._

_The way he shed more layers of protection, undressed himself of every mask and composure. Turned away from the prying eye of the camera and nevertheless searched for it._

_It was a picture of contradiction. Of darkness and light. Pureness and sin. Fingerprints gave away every spot he touched on his own body. The makeshift handcuffs telling a story of forbiddance and restraint. Of self-indulgence and intemperance. Of punishment and atonement._

_Every streak of black paint was an invitation, a plea for touch. Made his own hands itch with eagerness to trace them. To sin. To extinguish the last drops of innocence. To wipe the youthful body clean. To cover him in white and protect him from destroying glances and thoughts. To savour his goodness and vulnerability and drink them in so he could finally be good and strong and honest again._

_And when Peter cowered in the small bathtub in the next room, serving as wardrobe and mask at the same time… when Killian shot the last pictures of black paint dripping from the clean pristine back, vanishing in the drain, he still felt on edge. Thrilled, alive._

_Every single cell in his body tingled with electricity._

_~~Never before had he felt like this~~. _

_And when he put the camera down to help the boy clean himself, rubbed over the subtle dents of his spine, rinsed the hairs of his neck - when he really_ t o u c h e d _the warm soft skin - he felt like he could burst._

_Peter was a_ boy _. Peter was temptation._

_(Touching him was dangerous.)_

_But these few moments (one - two hours) they had been connected. They had created something beautiful and special._

_They both knew it. They both felt it._

_And when he didn’t mention the few tiny black spots on Peter’s chin and bottom lip he missed to clean… when he took a last picture of Peter’s features - all relaxed and tired and smug - it was probably just because he liked to have proof of this beautiful and special thing they had together._

_Leaning against the worktable, he quickly wrote Elena a short message declaring how sorry he was about using her paint when Peter walked over to him, dressed in Killian’s too wide shirt._

_(There was something like_ p a i n _in the left side of his chest, something that he quickly shrugged away.)_

_He had to clear his throat, voice hoarse and thick from two hours of silence._

_“Look… I’m sorry that I can’t promise you anything…” he fumbled for his wallet. It felt awkward as fuck - paying an underaged boy, who was still wearing his shirt, bearing traces of what they_ did _._

_(There_ was _a mirror, Peter could’ve cleaned them away.)_

_The laughter he got was bright, childlike and honest._

_The kiss pressed upon his cheek was also childlike and honest._

_The look when Peter turned away was nothing of that._

__‘Forget the money. Take me out.’ __

_And Killian took him out. First to a restaurant not far from the studio, where Peter choose the most expensive steak on the menu, drinking red wine that coloured his lips, ignoring the various suspicious stares of the other guests. Where they talked about leaving school and working night shifts. About girlfriends and burgers and parties. Afterwards Peter dragged him into a small and crowded pub, where the music was too loud to understand a single word, where they drank beer and played table football. He took him to a club - most likely one of those more fancy ones he couldn’t afford for himself. With stale air and too many dancing overheated bodies, even more loud music. Where Peter emptied three shots of vodka in a short row and leaned very close to him, still completely sober. Where he had to whisper in his ear, smelling of wine, soap and Killian’s own cologne._

_It was almost six in the morning, the sun about to rise, the cobblestone alleys of old town square wet from a soft rain and Peter stepped into the backdoor of the restaurant he was working for the early shift._

_It was three minutes later and he came back, a paper bag with some coffee and a chocolate bagel in it._

_It was ten seconds and another kiss - on his mouth, lacking everything childlike and sweet - and Peter disappeared again._

_Still smirking, licking his lips._

_Still wearing Killian’s shirt, hands stained with some persistent spots of paint._

___

 

“There’s a party at Anabell’s tonight. Are you coming too?”

“No,” he shakes his head. Of course he’s been invited, but he doesn’t care about those parties. Peter knows that quite well. 

“... I’ve got work to finish. The work I intended to finish yesterday before you decided to distract me.”

“Maybe you could come later?” 

“You know I hate those kind of events.” 

“I want to dance with you…”

Peter lowers his mug of coffee to show him his smile. The dangerous and beautiful one. Serving him memories from three years ago, when he spotted the boy the first time. 

Killian is already dressed for work, packing his stuff together in the living room area. 

Cat sits in the middle of the flat between dining table and kitchen corner - observing both of them as if she couldn’t decide. Obviously puzzled because she’s still not used that they are both here. That Peter’s here. 

(Just like he himself is still not used - and will never be used to Peter in his life.)

“No… you only want to turn me on so you can blow me later in the toilet.” 

He walks over to the breakfast counter, leans onto it opposite to Peter. 

“Just like the old days.” 

Fingers reach for him. Tickling over his lips, brushing over his stubble. 

“I miss the old days.” 

The fingers curl around his chin just as the cat curls around his legs. Soft texture of fur, gently caressing his shin. Begging for attention. 

“Well… I don’t.” Killian smirks. 

And he really doesn’t. Peter is cold and cruel. He is fickle like the wind. Fast and striking like lightning. A thunderstorm of emotions. Showing up, messing with him. Leaving him.

He bows down to stroke Cats head. Her moist tongue laps over his palm, warm and raspy like sandpaper. She purrs quietly and stretches her neck so he can caress her chin. 

Fathomless green eyes staring up at him, waiting for their food. 

“Feed Cat before you leave.” 

“You really like her, don’t you? You talk to her, she’s allowed to sit in your lap, sleep in your bed… You care about her.”

Peter slides from the barstool. Picking Cat up, he strolls to Killian, presses against his side. 

“She’s not bad for a cat… but I’m still a dog person,” he shrugs. After all, taking Cat in has been Peter’s decision alone. As well as leaving her at his place when he moved out. 

“So if I’d wanted to take her to New York with me… you wouldn’t miss her?”

“Maybe a little bit. But go on… she’s your cat.”

Killian reaches for his mug, watching suspiciously as Peter places her upon the table. She gives him a glance of interest before she gracefully parades around their plates, mugs and his pad. 

“She’s not allowed up there. And she knows that. You spoil her.”

“Like you said… she’s mine. And I allow it.” Peter’s eyes are pale green, but with the same intensity as the animal’s, stare at him.

“But it’s my kitchen, my flat, my cream she licks from your plate. When she’s at your place, she can do what she likes.”

A laugh, full of mirth and delight.

“My my… why so snappy?” 

There’s the warmth of a lean and strong chest behind him. The breath of a whisper at the shell of his ear. The wicked and wonderful tongue like hot caramel - mellow and sweet.

He wants to recoil, to turn away, slip from the grasp of nimble fingers placed upon his waist, wandering towards his groin, pressing him against a waiting and ardent body. 

(He really wants to - he’s got to work. He doesn’t want distraction, affection. He doesn’t want to fall once more for the boy.)

“You really hate the idea of me taking her away… don’t you?” 

Shaking his head is one thing… leaning back, wanting more of this contact another one. 

“Because a small part of you knows that as long as my cat lives here I’d come back. That’s why you hate losing her. You’re afraid I wouldn’t show up again and you’d never see me again.”

Of course Peter’s right. He can’t deny it ~~anymore~~. 

But that doesn’t mean he has to admit it. 

The boy is fickle like the wind, loves his freedom as much as Killian. Hates to be tied to one place, just as much as him. 

(It’s easier to keep the cat, to feed her, to caress the silky black fur, to feel the happy and content noise and heartbeat of the small body, to give her a home he doesn’t need for himself, than to lean into the warm, wonderful one behind him and confess it.)

~~For both of them~~.

 

___

 

It’s very late when the doorbell rings with Peter’s insistent and impatient force. 

He’s seen his mobile blinking, signalizing received messages. Heard the incoming calls about an hour ago. 

With a sudden feeling of quiet unease Killian takes his cleaning rag and heads for the door, pressing the opening button of the intercom with his elbow. 

In the darkness of the hallway Peter’s face is strangely illuminated from the light of his studio, eyes bright from alcohol and enjoying life to the fullest. 

“You ignored my calls…” 

The frown he wears is half-pissed, half-curious, but vanishes while taking in his colour-stained hands and jeans. “You’re painting?”

“Obviously.”

“... and that was more important than me?” he chuckles - a small, childlike sound. 

“Obviously.”

Peter walks past him (not even touching him); a casual and languid walk. The slight sway of hips, the carelessness when he shrugs out of his jacket, dropping it to the floor. The wandering eyes, taking in the familiar surroundings with a quiet, content smile: everything tells him that Peter indeed enjoyed himself very much. 

“Are you drunk?”

“Maybe.” 

“Is the party already over? I’m surprised. Thought I wouldn’t see you this night.”

Killian leans against his worktable, watches the boy saunter through the studio, stepping carefully over cables and other equipment. Peter takes a quick look into the blackness of the small darkroom - wrinkles his nose at the stinging smells of the chemicals. Stares at the two drying photographs on the laundry line. Turns around, the question in the green eyes so very visible that he already knows it won’t come. 

“The party was boring. Pity you weren’t there… I wanted to show off with you.”

"Well… I guess since we're not a thing that would’ve been rather pointless." 

“Yeah… I guess.” Peter’s voice is small, soft and more thoughtful than it should be. ~~Smaller and softer and more thoughtful than Killian likes it to be~~. 

“You took pictures of your darkroom.”

“Yes.”

Folding his arms in front of his chest, Killian wants to shrug. (He’s not… ~~confusedinsultedhurt~~. Has no right to be. Should even be glad about the fact that Peter agrees with him.)

“You took pictures of blackness. You photographed the absence of light?” 

“Yes.” 

When Peter steps towards him to glance at his current work, Killian turns slightly, just enough to keep him in sight. 

“It’s spiritus... you’re destroying your own pictures.” 

He says nothing. There is _nothing_. 

While Peter still stares at the huge black image, glossy and harsh, sprinkled with hurtful greyish-white dots and smears where he removed parts of the colour, covered with sick looking blisters - a result of the chemical reaction between paper and fluid. It’s adorned with scratches and traces of his fingers, additional layers of more photographs - a labyrinth of blackness; one darkroom after another, each single one cut apart or torn. Horizontal and vertical lines of the tiles; ghosts appearing on the negatives; endless rows of stripes with endless different pictures. And then more paint - tiny streaks of dangerous red, sparks of deadly scarlett, veins of poisonous bordeaux. And black. More black. 

Peter says nothing. There is _nothing_.

Quietly he walks around the worktable, index trailing over the edge with slight boredom.

“Guess who I met at that party?”

The finger stops when it hits his thigh. 

Their eyes clash. 

(Killian wants to flinch.)

“Guess who talked to me about you?” 

The voice is still perfectly neutral - more amused than angered. But the slightly slurred words - proof that he’s indeed a little drunk - betray his emotions because he doesn’t care to conceal this circumstance. 

“And guess who didn’t know that I’m currently staying at your place?”

(It costs all of Killian’s willpower not to flinch.) 

“Yep, Aurora.” 

Peter’s breath smells of limes and mint and satisfaction when he leans closer. 

“But don’t worry, she knows now.” 

The voice sounds so pleased Killian wants to push him away. He can’t bear the added body heat against his own. 

(It’s too much. Peter’s everywhere, on his skin, in his veins, in his thoughts, in his dreams. He manipulated Killian’s freedom into something black and vicious and sick.)

There are moments he hates this boy so much he regrets everything he did the last three years. He wants to grab him, to shake him, to hurt him. Never see him again. Never think about him again. Erase. _Destroy_.

Rip. 

Him. Out. Of. His. Thoughts. Veins. Heart.)

“You told her?! Are you sick!?”

(So he doesn’t have to feel the huge weight taken from him. The insane relief he shouldn’t feel.)

“Calm down.” 

And then Peter’s gone. Away from him. Not touching him anymore. 

(His breathing stops although it should become easier.)

“I just told her that I’m staying at your place till saturday.” 

(But it doesn’t.)

“She’s as innocent a lamb.” The chuckle that follows these words is almost as innocent. 

(He knows it’s the most dangerous one because it’s so open, so honest, so real.)

“So…tell me. Are you two serious?"

Killian wishes he wouldn’t turn around and look at him. He’s not a liar, but he’s not good with being honest to himself. 

"No... I... I don't know."

He doesn't want to think about it. Sometimes before Peter came back for one of his short visits - he thought that they could be... something. She is great. Beautiful from the outside and even more from the inside. Intelligent and understanding and kindhearted, with a softness and patience he’s not sure if he deserves it. 

No. 

He’s sure he doesn’t deserve it. 

She never asks anything from him. Not a word, not a promise. Not for space in his flat, not for a place in his heart. She’s there for him when he wants her. She leaves when he doesn’t.

And maybe this is the reason he gives her so much. Allows her so much space in his flat. A place in his mind, in his dreams, in his heart. 

“Maybe,” he admits finally. Yet it feels like a lie. More like something he has to say than something he wants to say. 

(Because it’s not her fault that her long locks are reddish and don’t have the colour of ash. Her eyes are blue like his own and not green like lichen in a misty forest - or like Cat’s in the pale winter light. Her lips are thin and her mouth is perfectly heart shaped when she smiles and not lusciously full and deliciously bitten before it turns into a demanding twist.) 

Hands slide around his waist. 

“She’s not good for you.”

Whispered words in his ear.

“... And even worse, you’re not good for her.”

Every word like a drop of poison, speaking a truth he still denies. 

Fingers climb higher, still separated from his skin through a layer of fabric. 

“You’re not a good person, Killian. You’re trying. But you’re not. And by letting her into your life you’re only proving that.”

“I thought you didn’t want to talk about her.”

The grip gets harder, tighter, presses Killian forcefully into the body behind him. The voice is so low and threatening.

“You sent her away because I came back. You wronged her. Maybe not by telling her you could have a relationship… but by not telling her that you _couldn’t_ have one. She likes you. She’s falling in love with you. She doesn’t know that you’re still caught between a past with a woman you can’t have anymore and a future when you finally will have accepted that you’re a self centered person who loves being free more than any other. She doesn’t know that you can only be with a person who is as self centered and selfish as you - who loves freedom more than anything.”

Touching him through his shirt, grasping him, keeping him in a iron clasp.

“Maybe…” It’s difficult for Killian to breathe. “Maybe I’ve changed. Maybe I’m not the same person that I was when we met.”

Tongue on his ear (hot and moist and so very playful). The smell of alcohol and mint and hairspray and cologne. The impatient and aggressive exhale of breath. 

~~An unwilling hiss~~. 

“She can’t give you what I’m giving you.”

(His own delight at this confession.)

“Oh… don’t worry, she’s quite good with her mouth.”

(His satisfaction at this open display of emotions.) 

The way the grip around him tightens even more, pressing the oxygen out of his lungs, making his blood boil when teeth sink deep into his skin. 

It hurts. 

It fucking _hurts_. 

But every hurt is dulled ~~extinguished~~ by the deep thrill of power he’s got right now. The boy may be cool and cruel on the outside… but on the inside he’s smoldering and burning and bruising and hurting emotions. Claiming and so possessive that it should probably frighten Killian, but coming from Peter it just turns him on. 

“Really?” 

His shirt is pulled down by the collar- hard, almost strangles him. 

“Really?!”

Nails scratch over his chest, his stomach, his groin, and the knowledge that only _he_ can bring the demon out that hides inside the boy, that only _he_ can make him lose his composure, can light this fire inside him. 

(Can make him want and _need_ and everything in between.)

_It’s addicting_. 

(Like water. Like oxygen. Like life.)

“You know that’s a cheap trick, Killian.”

Of course he knows. 

“Did it work?”

But he doesn’t need an answer. The hurt he’s feeling where Peter bit him - marked him - is enough.   
So instead he enjoys hands, touches. Teeth and lips. Kisses and licks and bites. Pain and pleasure (more pleasure than pain, because the greedy behaviour is nothing but satisfyingly arousing.)

The bruise forming where neck meets shoulder a throbbing and warm reminder that will last even when Peter leaves on saturday. 

“Fuck…” the word is another long-drawn-out confession, almost a groan, when the mouth pulls away. “I just wish I could place my fingers everywhere upon your body, cover each spot and bone before I repeat it with my mouth. I’ll kiss every part of your body, except where you want it the most. Small, short kisses with just the tiniest bit of tongue - like Cat lapping cream.” 

A softly painted picture, a fantasy that could be both: a trick or a promise.

“... and when I’m finished and you’re squirming underneath me I’ll use my tongue. /i>Really use my tongue. Trace and hunt your scent and taste. Steal it and drink it and take it with me.”

A wonderful poem that fuels his erection even more than the teasing hand (maybe even more than the covered hard on pressing into him). 

“God… /i>Killian… I wish we could do this right now…” 

The voice is honey-sweet and he knows the smile is devilishly beautiful. He’s seen it a thousand times (and it’ll never be enough). He knows every single one of Peter’s smiles - he’s discovered them, all of them. Burned them on photographic paper. Banned them for eternity. 

“Pity we can’t.”

And he wants to turn, to face, to touch, to feel. Body against body. Kiss the smile, the lips. 

But he’s caught. Can’t move. Is reduced to mere movements of his hips to feel _more_. The question, the protest, the irritation, the frustration clouding, messing with his mind. 

“Because you smell of _her_.”

The shove against his back is abrupt, almost violent, almost making him stumble forward. 

Finally free, he spins around, for about two seconds too confused, unsure if he’s more angry or more amused. 

“We had dinner together.”

“I told you not to see her.”

“No. You told me you don’t want to share and that I’m yours. But I don’t remember I agreed.”

“And I don’t remember you _disagreed_.”

The left eyebrow is raised in displeasure - mocking and doubting. 

“You had dinner together, you kissed her and then you sent her away to that party and later you would’ve gone home to fuck me.”

It’s the plain truth. ~~And it hurts that he’s doing this to her~~. (But they had worked together before they started dating. She knew who he was - knew his reputation. And he never promised her anything. )

But he can’t change it. He can’t stay away from Peter. And he can’t deny him anything. 

Can’t deny himself the pleasure of touching him, of fucking him, ~~of being with him~~. 

He tried. 

He really tried.

And failed miserably.

“You’re a liar.”

“I am not a _liar_. I just didn’t tell her. If she would walk in on us right now or if she’d have ever asked me if I was seeing someone else I would’ve told her.”

It’s the plain truth, and yet the worst excuse ever. 

“She won’t ask. She trusts you. And like every girl she likes to think she’s different than all the other ones you dated before. That you’ve changed… for her.” 

Peter takes a step forward. Closing the gap between them again. In arm’s range, but neither of them reaches out for the other. 

“How stupid of her. You’ll never change. You’ll always love your freedom. And that’s why you’ll always love me.”

Killian holds his breath. 

~~It’s the truth~~. 

“Because I am your freedom.”

A kiss. Just one single kiss. Without tongue, without teeth. Only lips. Only one taste, one searing touch.  
(And at the same time it’s a gesture so sweet and gentle. So self-assured and so hesitant.) Drinking his breath. His heartbeats. His everything. 

And Killian gives in. Always does. 

Because it’s the truth. It’s natural. It feels right. 

Peter takes everything from him. Takes it for granted. (Oxygen. Spit. Blood.)

~~His thoughts. His feelings. His soul~~. 

And at the same time he sets him free. 

His thoughts. His feelings. His soul. 

They kiss. They breathe. 

Until Peter takes his hand (with the same naturality) and leads him away from his worktable to the four great canvases leaning against the wall. Stopping in front of them. 

“Tell me… does she know that all these pictures are your nightmares banned to photographs?”

The subtle way with which the boy leans onto him. Holding his hand captive - pressed upon the warmth of his stomach (negating every spoken word before). He doesn’t look at him. Doesn’t need to. He knows that Killian could never lie to him.

“No.”

“Or does she know that you dream about blackness and blood and pain almost every night?”

“No.” 

(He couldn’t tell her. Not that he’s sometimes barely able to sleep because of those dreams nor that he sometimes stays awake working and or drinking until he collapses on his couch or the one in the studio. Nor that he’s afraid to fall asleep for he could scream at night and she could find him and ask.)

“So she doesn’t lay beside you and hold you to keep those images at bay while you’re finally able to sleep?”

“No.”

A part of him ~~the one that knows the boy is right~~ wants to see the smile - pleased and satisfied. But the other one wins. The one which is still hurting from the ugly truth. From the lie he is not telling but living. And so he’s glad when Peter doesn’t turn around. 

“Are these for your next exhibition?”

“If there is a next exhibition… yes.” 

“But the critiques were excellent… why shouldn’t there be?”

“Maybe because nobody wants to pay for my nightmares of blackness, blood and pain?”

“Then they are stupid.” A harsh and cold voice - full of contempt because they can’t understand. Because they couldn’t see the beauty in emotions like hurt, distress or sadness. 

“This is so much better than any of your shots… even better than the ones with me.”

Finally Peter turns, but the pleased and satisfied smile is gone. Instead there’s a small one, almost sad. (He always loved these sad smiles. They’re so rare, so precious. And usually they’re only for _him_. Only he can bring them out.) 

“I don’t get why you’re still doing fashion. You’re too good for such trivial work.”

He shrugs. 

“It pays the rent. It pays the food. The cream for your cat.” 

Stepping back to pick up some of the tubes and cans containing various shades of black paint, closing them before using a dirty rag to clean off the leaking colour. When he still feels the musing and inscrutable eyes on him, he looks up again.

“I like it. I wouldn’t do it otherwise. And you wouldn’t be here if not for my trivial work. You’d still working in that fast food restaurant in Prague, wiping tables, serving burgers and coming home late at night reeking of pommes fat and toilet cleaner.”

Peter’s smile changes from thoughtful to smug and daring. 

“You can’t be honestly believe I’d still be waiting tables if it weren’t for you?” 

No, of course not, but the opportunity is too good to let it pass - to change the mood. Steer away from topics and emotions he doesn’t want to talk about, to feel. 

“No… you would have probably found yourself a rich lonely lady to please in the sheets while her husband is away. You have to admit that this is better.”

“If it weren’t for my good looks you’d never have noticed me.” 

Another truth - and although less hurtful than the others, even more fateful. 

Fingers dance over his worktable, over rolls with black tape, pencils, gathering dark dust when wandering over the bowl with pigment, leaving traces on the canvas laying there, hesitating over the small stack of photographs, glossy and smooth like satin - curious, but not touching. Then finally they settle upon his arm. 

Dusty black imprints of _Peter_ on his skin. 

Eyes meet and Killian can almost see the wicked thoughts behind them. 

“ _Interesting._ ” 

But just before stealing fingertips can reach again for the powdered colour, he catches them. 

“No.” 

“Think of all the beautiful marks you could cover me with… and tomorrow at the shooting I’m clean and flawless again.” 

Wriggling themselves free they start to brush over the back of his hand, less than a touch, more than a whisper.

“Nope.”

“Imagine how all your blackness will look upon my naked skin. How wonderful and slippery and dirty it’ll feel when you slide over me… Like you always wanted...”

Tickling upwards over his left arm, warm and thrilling. Leaving black traces behind. A soft path of velvet. Dry and light-absorbing. 

“Still not interested.”

There are fragments of seconds in which they are just looking at each other. Watching. Waiting. Calm and testing. 

Then Peter’s slight and amused chuckle.

“I don’t believe you.”

His own, mirroring it. 

“Believe me. I’m not interested in tasting powdered pigments instead of you. Of seeing your flesh tainted with black oil-paint. I’m not interested in covering one inch of your skin with anything else beside my lips or tongue or teeth.”

Again the laugh (hiding, overplaying the spark of lust and demand). 

“But then you’ll have to wait until tomorrow.”

Fingers continue their trail upwards, drawing a small circle of fading black on his upper arm. 

Killian smiles. The stroking sensation is slowly dripping into his system. Comforting and only the slightest bit arousing. 

“I’ll live.” 

Brushes his thumb over the protesting pout, dwelling a little longer upon the corner. Gathering the kiss lingering there. 

“But I’m not. I want you to fuck me today. Why do you think I left the party so early? Certainly not to talk with you about your current bitch of the week or about your work.” 

He loves it. The demanding ~~not begging~~ voice. The grabbing nimble hands. The teasing spark in the green eyes. (The incredible soft, tender, sad smile that reveals all his true emotions and betrays all spoken words.) 

The way Peter still stares at the four black pictures, still clings onto the dirty rag which he used to clean their hands… while he puts away his utensils and packs his camera and the laptop. 

The way Peter carefully caresses the photographs lying on his worktable, switches off the great headlights, picking up their jackets from the floor. 

The way he navigates in the dim green light of the emergency signs around requisites and over cables. Following him without doubt or stumbling through the mere darkness. Because he knows this place almost as well as Killian himself. 

Shoving his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket. Whispering dirty desires into the shell of his ear before climbing into the cab with him - instantly laying himself down and placing the ashen head in his lap, Peter looks up. 

Orange streetlights ghosting over his face, interrupted with flickering seconds of darkness. Eyes heavy with lack of sleep, the smile beautiful and pleased and devilish and tired and sad. Unreadable. 

(The words slightly slurred and blurred while he tells the driver to take a detour to Westminster and Piccadilly Circus.) 

Lips forming soundless words against the palm of his hand. 

(More wishes, more promises, more _lies_ \- he doesn’t care.) 

The skin under his fingertips warm and pure, frail and sharp - like a shards of glass, glittering and dangerously painful. 

(Cutting him apart, piercing his flesh - thousand slivers, too tiny to hurt. So tiny they make his insides bleed when they finally reach his heart.)

 

**End Chapter 03**


	4. Friday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi,
> 
> thanks for your kind words regarding my last chapter! Your reviews and kudos makes my day everytime! I’m so so glad, I smile like a teenage girl in love whenever I get one of the notification mails from A03 ^.^
> 
> Beta read by my beloved [ **Bee** ](http://archiveofourown.org/users/tatou/pseuds/tatou) ♥
> 
> One minute of shameless self-promotion *blush*: I’ve got a [ **tag** ](http://seawaterinmyveins.tumblr.com/tagged/scratch-your-name-into-my-soul%3A-extras) on my tumblr, with pictures, poetry and music that inspired or reminded me of this story. 
> 
> Only one more chapter to go… I hope you like this one! ♥

**Scratch your name into my soul**

 

**Chapter 04: Friday**

_  
“So… that’s it, I guess.”_

_“Yeah… that’s it.”_

_Killian had spent the morning watching the boy pack up his stuff. It wasn’t that much; mostly clothes - some of them Peter had brought from Prague, some bought after his first job. Some borrowed from him because Peter almost never wore his own shirts or boxers in the loft (a slightly annoying, even more exciting fact)._

_He had tried to work while Peter had walked around, searching, cursing, talking alternatingly to himself or his mother on the phone in rapid Czech. Barefoot, wearing nothing but_ his _boxers._

_But he couldn’t concentrate._

_Knowing that Peter would be moving out, leaving for New York was harder than he had imagined. It was a thought he realized now he had repressed the last two weeks. (Repressed with working, drinking, fucking.)_

_All those months before he had felt on edge - he wasn’t used to another person in his life; someone who demanded attention, someone who was always there. Someone who could discover everything he wanted to protect. ~~Someone who already discovered everything he wanted to protect~~._

_Now Peter stood in front of him. Properly dressed with jeans and casual sweater, hair slicked back, leaning against the table, looking at him._

_Killian could smell the fabric softener, the shower gel and the smell of his own cologne._

_He turned in his chair._

_“You’re sure you don’t want me to drive you?”_

_Peter’s smile was amused and just on the right side of ~~not~~ sad. _

_“You sure you don’t want to fuck me the last time?”_

_He grinned and Killian couldn’t help the smirk._

_“Yes. Definitely.”_

_“Pity… it could be a while till I come back.”_

_“Believe me or not… but I’ll live.”_

_And Peter’s reaction, the little huff of breath, the tiny smile - resigned and at the same time scornful - the defensiveness with which he pushed himself from the table’s edge…_

_(It made Killian’s chest constrict. A shock of pain; too brief for him to be totally certain it had been there.)_

_Since that night over two weeks ago, since that night Peter had come to him… ever since that night everything had turned ~~to worse~~ more tense. _

_Since that night over two weeks ago they had done this again and again and again. It was too good, too satisfying and delicious not to._

_He’d never done anything that felt more ~~wrong right~~ fatal. _

_He’d never had someone who had given himself so completely._ So very openly and honestly _._

_He’d never lost himself so completely._

_Suddenly he’d been an open wound and he couldn’t stop bleeding._

_Peter was a knife made of silver and ice - he’d cut deep and cold. And even when he drew back, there was no time for recovery, no time for healing._

_Because the pain had felt too good and Killian had felt so alive that he longed for another stab, longed to bleed again._

_(And this_ f e e l i n g _was so new, strange, menacing… he wanted to push it away. Deny it. Erase it. Push the boy away. Decline him. Shove him out of his life.)_

_So he was glad, relieved, that Peter finally moved out ~~left him~~. _

_~~Except he wasn’t~~. _

_Therefore he stood up, grabbed the boy._

_Kissed him._

_He ~~wanted to~~ didn’t want to. But it was better than letting him walk away. _

_Killian was no saint. He was not a good person._

_He enjoyed what they did. No remorse. No second thoughts. Loved the feeling of Peter’s body against his own, his little sounds of pleasure, his expression of bliss._

_The feeling of familiarity when Peter smiled against his lips, when his hands held him. When his tongue slid into his mouth._

_They were hungry for each other, desperate even. But unlike Peter he couldn't ignore ~~or enjoy~~ the menacing feeling of destroying himself in the progress. The fear of losing himself - everything he fought so hard to be, everything he wanted to be - every time he was with him._

_Peter made him feel too many things, but not in a good way: unstable, insecure. Weak. Needy. And he couldn’t bear the image of himself in the boy’s presence._

_~~Couldn’t bear how good he felt, how complete~~. _

_Because the last time he felt that_ whole _everything went wrong, he had fucked it up, destroyed it. And because he couldn’t trust Peter. Because he didn’t trust himself._

_The last two weeks they had given their bodies, their blood. The softest strokes, the hardest bites. They had been together and alone. Separated and one. They had been open and unashamed and yet they had tried to guard their most precious secrets (whispered them into skin, into open mouths, into dreams; in the seconds between dusk and dawn, in the hazy state before drifting off to sleep)._

_So when they finally parted there was nothing but ~~relief lightness~~ coldness. _

_(Not the faint arousing taste of Peter lingering on his lips, the memory of fingers in his hair. The ghost of body heat against his own.)_

_Silently - they both don’t know what to say - Killian watches the boy fumble with his keys, placing the spare key on his table, looks at the small suitcase, the smaller backpack with all of Peter’s belongings._

_“What about the cat?” he turns around._

_“What about it?”_

_“How do you want… you don’t want to take it with you.”_

_“No.” Eyebrows twitched. (Those fucking eyebrows: now they were smaller, more elegant, but the boy still could express every emotional state more clearly than anybody else.)_

_“How could I take her with me? Even if I could take her with me on the plane… I’ll be living in a youth hostel first, then in a cheap shared flat with three other guys.”_

_“So you want to leave her with me,” He should’ve known. “Peter, this was your idea. She’s yours. I objected to it in the first place.”_

_The smile is nothing but fake - too sweet, too modest, too remorseful._

_“I’ll come back and get her as soon as I can?” he offers. “And look at her… nobody can withstand a little kitten.”_

_Killian shakes his head, refusing to do what Peter tells him to._

_“Fine… like there’s any other option.”_

_At least now Peter’s smirk is more honest. Content, smug. Everything went exactly like he planned._

_And then he kisses him - a reward, a triumph… It doesn’t matter._

_Because this time it tastes of farewell._

_It’s the most beautiful and bitter and desperate of their kisses. Without tongue, without teeth. Just a kiss. Soft and tender. Slow and casual. But lasting like weeks of sadness, emotional destressing like death and despair. So Killian has to close his eyes. Has to feel. Holds his breath and breathes in at the same time._

_Until their touch ends._

_When he dares to open his eyes again, Peter is gone._

_His flat is empty, his own again._

_So completely empty and bare of almost every proof that Peter really was here._

_Closing the door behind him, Killian walks over to his table again. Starts working._

_~~Because that’s what he wanted all the time~~._

_And later when the kitten climbs onto his lap, still clumsy, still confused about Peter’s leaving, he holds it for the first time.  
_

___

 

The next morning comes too soon, too bright, too cold. 

His mattress empty, the loft silent, the sheets tousled where Peter’s body has been. 

Killian vaguely remembers ~~his arms holding him, protecting him, keeping his nightmares away~~ him untangling the limbs from his own - naked skin on naked skin. Hands strolling over his body, over his stomach and waist and thighs, between his thighs, teasing him, his groin, his dick, so swift and fleeting that he’s not even sure they were real or just his imagination. Breath stroking over arms and chest. Eyes drinking in his every movement, his every reaction. 

So he can’t help but feeling deserted when he finally comes to full consciousness, climbing down the metal stairs into the living room. 

(He never feels deserted or alone. He likes being for himself. He needs the solitary.) 

Solitary is freedom. 

~~Peter is freedom~~. 

Peter is a cage ~~in which he feels free~~. 

Switching the coffee maker on, he checks his mobile, ignores the three messages from his assistant, the one from his brother inviting him to the family dinner at sunday, the mail from the chief editor thanking him for his work, and opens the picture Peter sent him. 

// _That’s your fault… all yours_.// 

Laughing, Killian puts his phone down. Catches his breath. Heads for the shower first before he finally answers it. 

The reply comes in seconds afterwards. 

// _We’re already behind schedule. The setting is ridiculous and they treat us like a piece of meat. I really miss working with you_.//

They keep texting over the day. Peter’s messages are a constant mixture of objective and realistic, of teasing and turning on, full of his biting humor and mockery over fashion business in general and today’s photographer especially, who’s apparently got no fantasy and vision at all and is a control freak with actually no control at all. 

And in between... images and words of sexual poetry. Flashes of skin and lips. Wishes of longing, of what he wants Killian do to him later. Of what he’ll do with Killian later.

All of them so exciting and twisting and burning that has to shake his head, shove the thoughts away, concentrate on his work, come to his senses.

(Because they are lies. _True_ lies. But that doesn’t change the sheer fact that they’re _lies_. Words, beautiful words, meant to deceive, to delude. Disguise that they can’t be with each other. That they are too selfish, too self centered, too independent.) 

His flat is dark, illuminated only by the thousand flickering lights of the city outside, the red standby spots of the TV and the coffee maker. 

Cat blinks sleepily at him, not bothering to get up from her spot on the sofa cushion and greet him, just waiting for him to prepare her food. A gracious queen through and through. 

(Not for the first time he admires her independence and indifference.)

On the kitchen counter is a note from Aurora, notifying him that she’s away for work till next wednesday and sealed with her soft rose-coloured kiss. And in the fridge he finds a huge bowl of fruit salad and one with chocolate pudding (made with soy milk - she always wants him to eat healthy). 

Throwing the piece of paper away he only takes the can of whipped cream and walks over to the couch (he doesn’t eat healthy and neither does Cat). 

With her warm weight on his chest, with BBC news channel on television, with the softly vibrating mobile in his hand, he drifts off into a dreamless sleep. 

 

He awakes to soft but cold fingers on his chest - instantly retreating when he stirs.

Peter looks pissed. And tired. Exhausted even. Eyes darker than usual, smudged with blackness and glitter. The still strange hair color adds to the sinister and haunted appearance. 

“How late is it?”

“Too late. That was the last time I work for those stupid fuckers. Five hours of delay! And we’re talking about only six pictures here.”

Killian smiles, stretching his body slightly (Cat’s still half draped across his chest and he doesn’t want to startle her). Peter being pissed is nothing new. It has to be his default mode. And yet it doesn’t fail to amuse and arouse him. 

The raised eyebrow, the pursed lips, the unwilling and abrupt way he throws his head back. Almost birdlike. Harsh and also breakable - the light on velvet cheekbones, the shadows under the sharp chin. The thousand shades of skin covering the frail bones of his face. 

~~It never fails to take his breath away~~. 

It never fails to arouse him. 

Peter is pleasure and passion and pure emotion. Fire. Life. And everything in between. 

~~Everything he ceased to be~~. 

“I remember you were always complaining about something. The photographer, the clothes, the food… the time when you had to get up, the time when you came home.”

“I didn’t complain about you.” 

“Oh, you did.” 

(Yes… indeed. He _did_. Killian remembers hisses and shouts. First fighting and then fucking. Peter’s fingers on his throat, on his chest. The lips spitting curses into his ears, biting them into the skin of his neck until his rage has subsided.)

The glance they both share.

(They both remember.)

“Not everybody is a perfectionist and needs his work to feel something, to wake up from the reality he’s caged in and face his dreams and fears and the darkest of his desires.” Peter’s features are judgemental, mildly amused. ~~And maybe also sad~~. 

“But at least you know what you want and manage to obtain some manners like ‘please’ and ‘ _thank you_ ’.” 

“Manners you obviously lack.” 

Staring down he watches Peter’s fingers sliding into his trousers, into his boxers. No longer cold and stiff from the early spring cold outside, but warm and tricky and terrible. 

“There used to be a time when I didn’t have to say ‘ _please_ ’ before I touched you and when you were the one pleading me _not_ to stop,” a pink tip of tongue licking lips before they present him the awaited smile.

“Imagine my surprise, Killian, coming home after my shit day at work and instead of finding you hard and ready for me I found you fast asleep on the couch like an old man.”

His zipper gets pulled down to give better access before Peter carefully picks Cat up and places her onto the floor, laughing at her obvious discontent and the offended behaviour when she walks away without paying him any attention.

“I can’t blame her, but this is _my_ place,” He drops his shoes to climb between his legs. 

But Killian has to shake his head, stop him. 

“Wash that away… _please_. I appreciate that you wanted to here as fast as possible, but you look like sick junkie with that make up.” He has to brush his thumb over the thin skin under the green eyes, leaving a disturbing stain of blackness and glitter behind. 

“And like I said I want to have _your_ taste.”

“Then maybe you should do something about it.”

It’s a promise; a mischievous curl of lips, the hint of a kiss in their corner. The devil in green eyes. Merciless and demanding. Full of pleased anticipation. 

Hands lure him from his lying position, make him follow them into his bathroom. (The swing of lean hips - jeans low when Peter removes his shirt and drops it onto the white tiles.)

The way he looks at him, perched on the edge of the bathtube. Watching him. Waiting for him. Half naked. Half smile. Half hard. 

(He loves having the upper hand. Teasing him. Turning him on with this suggestiveness and determination that is _pure_ Peter.)

So Killian does nothing. Nothing but cleaning the make up away with wet tissues. Removing layer after layer. Blackness around the eyes, pale powder from cheeks, sticky gloss from lips. 

Peter’s bones under his fingers, his pulse vibrating vividly against his own skin. 

(The face becoming clearer and _purer_ with every brush.)

Thighs spread for him to stand between them. A languid and casual gesture. A cage - made especially for him. While fingers climb upwards over his side, over his behind, over his back. 

When he’s done caressing the face with a warm washcloth, he finally takes the last remaining step separating them. Waits for Peter to sit more upright, to meet him. Melts against his thighs and stomach and chest. Playful and yearning. 

“Better?”

“Much better.”

“Then go on… I’m not here so you can stare at me.”

Killian’s laugh sounds ~~too desperate, too lost, too much in love~~ strange in his own ears. So ~~desperate and lost and in love~~ strange he has to silence him and himself.

With lips, with tongue, with lies that are so terribly _true_ that neither of them can talk about it. Instead he removes his sweater, pulls his shirt over his head - allowing more contact. 

The small kisses just like Peter predicted. All over his chest and stomach and groin (the frustrated groan when he yanks at his trousers). Slow and with the tiniest bit of wetness. Everywhere except where he wants them the most, followed then with licks and moist trails. The warm path they leave behind prickling from the cooler air. The almost inaudible sounds that escape Peter on his search for _more_. More skin. More taste. More _Killian_. 

(A thought that does _more_ for him than he ever thought possible.)

Uses his fingers, nose, lips, his teeth to gain it until Killian stops him, painfully aroused in his boxers, leaning down to have his own fair share of moreskintastepeter.

(Of green eyes looking up at him - waiting for him. All greedy and demanding and soft and longing.) 

He licks over the round chin, kisses the underside and scrapes over the tender throat - feeling the heat of the blood underneath. 

The different mingling scents of soap, water and sweat. Awakening an hunger inside him, so urgent he’s almost afraid it’ll tear him apart. 

And when Peter finally stands up, pressing his body against his - warm, smooth and so alive and _real_ \- it’s like all everything goes blank. 

He feels empty. White. Bare.

Bare of all contemplations, all his objections. All his misguided feelings. 

Everything is floating. Languid tranquility. Light and lightness. 

Fingertips trace the remaining bruise where Peter bit him two nights before, a quiet display of satisfaction that it’s still visible - that there are still evidences of _him_ on Killian’s body. 

“This looks so beautiful on you.” (A laugh.)

“You tasted so good.” (A lick.)

“I can’t wait to taste you everywhere.” (A bite.)

Teeth search for the little red spots already there, to cover and renew them. 

Their touches become more hasty, more eager, more demanding. Holding, pulling, claiming. Faster, harder. Closer. Kisses with more tongue, teeth. Drawing bruises, taking every trace of scent. 

The turned on and frustrated gasp when Peter tears himself away to shove down his trousers, first his jeans (ridiculously tight and riding so low on his waist that Killian always longs to yank them down and kiss the place between the prominent hipbones) then his boxers. 

Placing his hands everywhere on Killian’s body - the same fleeting and chasing caresses as in the morning - licking his lips, leaning back, baring his throat, beckoning him to take ~~to bite to mark~~. 

And it’s too tempting, too good. Too thrilling. 

(In the back of his mind since three days.)

So he leaves ~~love~~ bruises, ~~love~~ bites and ~~love~~ marks. 

Sucking the warm flesh into his mouth, the taste of skin, sun and smooth caramel, sweet and tangy and so much Peter, his stomach almost growls with hungerlustgreed while he places a chain of kisses down the soft skin of his upper arm. 

Impatient fingers in his hair, grabbing and pulling him up to kiss him on his mouth - full and hard and forceful. 

“I want you. Now. On me _or_ in me. I don’t care.”

Tousling his hair and holding him in place so their eyes meet. 

“I personally prefer having you in me, _every_ fucking inch of you. Filling me up so I don’t even need to touch myself to come. But I’ll live if it’s just your mouth on me, taking me deep down your throat and looking up at me while doing that…”

Killian shuts his eyes for a second, his cock twitching at the lightning fast pictures appearing in the sudden darkness. 

“Shut up,” he smirks (remembering for another lightning fast second a time when the boy really was nothing more than a _boy_ , his english so bad every one of his threats and curses made him laugh so that the boy had to shut him up with his mouth, with his fingers or with simply showing him what he wanted Killian do to him).

A memory that’s as much a turn on as a blow to his heart. Because that boy doesn’t exist anymore. He turned into this young man, resembling the boy so much it hurts every time and yet he’s a completely different person. 

Then there are the fingers on his fly again. This time not stopping but just sliding the denim down - palms brushing over his thighs, electrifying the little hairs there. Electrifying his whole body even when Peter’s already taken a step away. 

And then every nostalgic thought is forgotten; ~~erased from his mind so completely he’s not even sure it was there in the first place~~. 

Because there isn’t enough room for anything else beside Peter, who bends over the concrete washstand. Presenting him his naked backside, emphasising how much he needs Killian (like he did so often before and that one special first time). 

Because there isn’t much he can do except doing everything Peter asked of him. Everything he wants as well (getting himself ready with lube and condoms and then _f i n a l l y_ being inside).

Watching the bare back stretching out in front of him. A landscape of small dents and hills, plains of pure skin. The graceful slope downwards where he loves to place his hands. To hold closer, to press his thumbs into the dips just beside the tailbone. Caressing over tender sides, over ribs and towards shoulderblades - their sharp cut, their harsh line when Peter hollows his spine to get him deeper. 

The breathless gasp, the shudder that runs through their bodies when Killian’s hands strokes down again, not so severe to leave any real marks, but a strong and confident claim that quickens Peter’s movements like he couldn’t get close enough to him. 

Everything in him longs to lean forward, to touch as much as possible. Rub himself against Peter’s skin, against his backbone, drag him nearerandnearerandnearer until they’re inseparable. 

Noticing the faintly blooming ~~love~~ bruises, ~~love~~ bites and ~~love~~ marks he placed on the lean shoulders, a disturbing and arousing picture (because Peter wanted him to leave these proofs of possession, wanted to be _his_ for the short time until they vanished). 

His heart beats faster, a throbbing ache spreads inside his veins, like something hidden that tries to break out. 

Another one of these raw and barely controlled sighs and he looks up into the mirror. Into Peter’s eyes. First clouded and covered with lust and pleasure (everything Killian’s doing to him) then clear and bright.  
Watching him, his every movement, his every reaction.

The smile beautiful and dangerous on the surface. 

Honest and lost and so damn enticing because he can see behind the mask.

The feeling of being inside, of being surrounded, of touching every part is mindblowing. 

Greedy fingers cover his own, holding onto the inviting hipbones, eager hips pushing against him longing for _m o r e_. A driven voice commanding him to go faster, harder, deeper. To make him come to hold him down to fuck him to use to fill him up until they’re both spent. 

And he does. 

There’s nothing he wouldn’t do for Peter. 

There’s nothing else he would rather do. 

Burying himself in him. Every inch, every fiber, every part of his soul. 

Until he feels the contraction, feels Peter’s fingers holding onto him so tight it hurts (the crunching and grinding of his bones, the sweat in their palms). Until he feels Peter falling completely apart underneath him. 

Around him. 

With him. 

He kisses every reachable patch of skin. Neck. Shoulderblades. And the place between them. Searching for green eyes in the mirror. For admission, for forgiveness. 

Before he pulls out. 

Reluctantly. 

(There used to be a time when he couldn’t bear the thought of falling apart inside the boy. Because it felt too much like losing his freedom, like giving himself up and offering the most treasured part of his soul to him. When he had to pull out before he came, to come in his own hands, to bite instead of kissing.)

Killian can see teeth worrying the bottom lip (red and swollen and tasting of paradise) when they part. Can almost hear the inaudible groan (a sound of loss and of losing) that drips from them. Can see eyes closing to hide these effects, the sudden emptiness, the cold. The sudden reality of finally being alone in his body. 

He can _seehearfeel_ it - because he knows it so well. 

Then Peter turns and stretches, leaning against him. Sticky belly, still hungry lips while he takes the condom from him and discards it. 

“ _That_ wasn’t part of the deal.” 

Sweaty and nimble fingers linger, curling and stroking lazily.

“I wanted to feel _you_. Your come on my skin, your smell on me.” 

Sending warm tingles through his groin - soft and mild like summer rain. Not the burning fire like before. And even though Peter’s fantasy is sweet and tempting, Killian smirks, pulls the naked body flush against his. 

“Shut up.”

Kisses him to silence the protests. 

To lure him into the shower with him. Wash away the remaining traces of sweat and come. Brush over the ones that won’t wash away. 

To lure him onto the couch with him later. Relaxed and cosy from the ~~lovemaking~~ warm water, watching documentaries about antarctica and cold blue ice while waiting for the night to pass, sun to rise, the day of Peter’s departure. 

To lure himself to sleep and dream.

**End Chapter 04**


	5. Saturday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everybody,
> 
> this is the final chapter and my last chance to tell you how much I appreciated your comments and kudos. It’s really amazing of you. ♥ 
> 
> Beta was again the sweet [ **Bee** ](http://archiveofourown.org/users/tatou/pseuds/tatou) ♥
> 
> Of course I’d love to hear what you think about my "ending" ^.^ 
> 
> But first… the last (very short) chapter. I hope you like my ending!

 

**Scratch your name into my soul**

**Epilogue: Saturday**

 

The next day Peter is gone.

The weight in his lap is Cat’s again. 

The loft is sunlit and bright. 

Empty and silent. 

The only proof that he was really here is the food in Cat’s bowl and the traces upon his own body. 

The relief and the numbness he feels is sick and overwhelming. 

Peter’s gone. 

Peter is past. ~~And will always be~~. 

Self-centered and selfish. Fire and freedom. 

Just like himself. 

 

___

 

So he choose the easy way. (Like always). The convenient way. The _good_ way. 

He loves Aurora. She’s beautiful and kindhearted. More kindhearted than he ever deserves. 

Because he isn’t a _good_ person. 

He tries. Really tries. 

But in the end he fails. 

He doesn’t lie to her. Not once. 

She never asks - she trusts him. 

And he wrongs her. 

Every time Peter is in town. 

Everytime they meet. 

Every time he awakes at night. From nightmares of blackness and blood and pain. 

 

___

 

Peter is past. And always will be. But in between he’s everything he ever wanted. 

A painful reminder of everything he wanted and lost. A cage of promises and possibilities too beautiful and devastating. A freedom that is too mind blowing and smothering. 

A cage he willingly returns to whenever he can. 

Peter is a deep wound. A piercing stab with a cold knife that’ll never completely heal. It’s a sharp flash of silver, almost reaching his heart. 

A wound he doesn’t even want to heal. 

Scraping the scab away and ripping it open whenever it threatens to cure. Againandagainandagain. 

Until there’s finally a lasting scar. 

A trace of Peter upon his body that no one can see. Like the trace he left upon his soul. 

 

___

**The End**

 

To make up for the short chapter there’s going to be a “bonus chapter” - a deleted scene I started to write during my holiday (because I still love this setting so much and I wanted to do this scene since the beginning but didn’t think it was necessary for the actual storyline). 

Maybe it will take a while because Bee is without laptop at the moment (and maybe I should ask her first if she’s still willing to do it ^.~) 


	6. Monday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since I love this setting so much… I couldn’t resist to write this extra scene, which I had already planned for the actual story but decided that it wasn’t necessary. 
> 
> But due to the increasing (and frustrating) lack of captain pan recently I wanted to post it anyway, hoping someone is still there who cares about them. ^.^
> 
> Beta (as always), my lovely [ **Bee** ](http://archiveofourown.org/users/tatou/pseuds/tatou) ♥
> 
> I hope you like it ♥

 

**Scratch your name into my soul**

 

**Extra scene: Monday**

 

It was a huge set, one of his biggest ever. 

But Peter showed no sign that he was impressed or nervous. He changed with the other three young men in the fitting room, his smile confident and slightly arrogant, while Killian and his assistant prepared the lighting and the cameras. 

The head of the advertising department of the fashion brand was also present and Killian knew for sure she was here because of Peter. Because he spoke for Peter, even insisted on him, telling her he wouldn't do the shooting if Peter didn't get the leading part, and it was a huge risk to rely on an unknown face in such a big campaign (and he still didn't know if she did it because she trusted his judgement or if she only did it because he fucked her last autumn).

But Peter was good, very professional and always on point with his expressions and posing. Looking at the surprised and satisfied face of his employer he couldn't help feeling strangely proud at his boy - because Peter was _his_. 

_He_ had found him. _He_ had seen what the boy could be. _He_ was the one that would make him huge (even though that would mean that Peter would probably leave sooner or later for Paris or New York, cities in which model jobs were more frequent and better paid). 

~~And _he_ was the one to whom Peter came to bed at night. ~~

Killian was certain that these photos, that this summer would change everything for Peter ~~and for him~~ , that their "life" would never be the same (that from now on everyone would want Peter). He knew such thoughts were selfish and he should want this for Peter (it was what he had intended; giving Peter a chance, opportunities, giving him the world). He should want this for himself because this job would make _him_ huge, would give _him_ opportunities, give _him_ the world or at least the freedom to decide which offers to take and to decline. 

Angrier than necessary, he shouted at the blonde girl - her name already forgotten - because she was scarcely able to hold her expression longer than butterfly in a hurricane. He was impatient and short tempered as always on set whenever someone couldn’t meet his expectations. But they were in quite a hurry because the light would soon be gone and then they would have to wait until dawn. A prospect nobody was fond of, so maybe that was also a reason why everyone was itchy and nervous to please him, overdoing their expressions and shifting their poses faster than necessary. 

He almost shouted at Charlene when she stepped closer to him again; too close, so disturbingly close that he couldn't move freely. But since she was technically his boss, at least for today, that probably wasn't the best idea and so he swallowed the curse. 

"You were right." She breathed into his ear. "He's amazing. Perfect for this campaign." 

Killian nodded curtly. He had told her about a dozen times: he _knew_ Peter was amazing. ~~But sometimes it was still difficult to take his eyes from him~~. 

He looked radiant and striking. Pale face, pale body, pale green eyes. The cold and dark smile full of promises and secrets. He easily outshone everyone else, even the two young women with their long wild hair, their beautiful bodies in the tattered dresses.

The way his arrogant and indifferent smirk turned for a second into an unwilling sneer when Killian criticized him. The defiant movement of his head when the other male model touched him. The angry and almost furious expression when Killian worked with the others without him. 

Peter wasn't used to competition. Until now he had always worked alone, the center of every shooting, the one who had captured the attention of everyone in the room.

Now he had to interact with others, had to work with them, stand back between the two women or place his head onto the blond boy's stomach. Had to observe while others flirted with the camera. 

Killian could see that he didn't like this. That he hid his anger behind even colder smiles and expressions, the remarkable eyebrows raised, the green of his glance turned into ice. 

Nobody else noticed it, but since he knew Peter far better and longer than anyone else here, he could clearly see that he was not amused (and probably only holding his furious temper in charge because he knew how important this shoot was for him and what he had risked to get Peter the job).

When the light was completely gone and night had sunken in, he finished the shooting for this day. It was futile to work any longer, because everyone was exhausted and lacking concentration. 

So he told everyone to get something to eat, drink and then sleep, cause they would have to be on set at 4 o’ clock in the morning to have the same bluish light again.

Stepping over to the catering for his desperately needed coffee and cigarettes and to escape the muttered protests, Killian leaned against a tree, eyes closed for a short moment before he had to pack his equipment and take a first look at the outcome. He was feeling on the edge, raw and deadly tired as everyone else, yet his day was far from over.

"I always knew you had a twisted dark mind, but this is thrillingly good." Peter appeared besides him, still clad only in these ridiculous cut-out dark jeans, upper body naked, only covered with glittering brown and greenish streaks of paint. Foreign symbols dotted down his bare left arm, the right one tangled in a black spiderweb of glove, reaching almost to his shoulder. In his hair a crown of leaves, bronze painted twigs and acorns. Face also painted/ half-covered in brownish glittering stardust. His eyes wide from lack of sleep and curiosity. 

He looked so beautiful and fascinating and ethereal that it cost Killian almost all his willpower not to step over to him and press him close. And yet he looked so untouchable and foreign and dangerous that Killian wanted nothing more than to step over to him and strip him from all those clothes (a costume, nothing more) and clean the make up from his face, to see the pure skin, to feel the soft tawny hair without glitter and spray. 

"...and thanks for ruining my favourite childhood story, by the way." 

"You're welcome. But why aren't you in the dressing room yet? I told everyone to hurry. I need you tomorrow without dark circles or clumsy from lack of sleep." Killian frowned because he couldn’t stand it when someone was going against his orders.

"Has anyone ever told you that you're a dictator?" Peter bit into an apple. The scent of freshness and cleanliness tickled his nose, made his empty stomach growl. 

"Yes. You. Every time we're working together." Killian laughed quietly; too weary to be irritated much longer.

"Because it's the truth."

"Because otherwise everyone would still hang out at the catering chatting and gossiping and we wouldn't get anything done tomorrow. And now, do what I’ve told you, please. I don't want Charlene to think you're unreliable." 

The second he mentioned that name, he knew that it was a mistake. Peter's eyes narrowed, mouth forming a sharp and cruel smirk.

"No, of course, we don't want _that_." The last words emphasized; a sneer.

“Because her judgement could be crucial for your career.”

Peter’s laugh was light and mirthful - honestly amused about Killian’s words. Of course, everything was still a joke for the boy: he doesn’t care, neither about his job nor his career. 

(He doesn’t care for anything.)

"Are you fucking her?" 

(Except for _him_.)

"No." Because that was the truth. 

"Not anymore." Because that was also the truth. 

Peter took a step closer, regarded him carefully. 

“Good.” 

(And that knowledge was more thrilling than it should be.) 

There were many times when Killian regretted that he had started sleeping with the boy, there were many times when he was delighted that he did. And there were many times when he was not sure if it was the first or the latter. 

Peter’s fingers on his zipper were surprising, shocking ~~and instantly arousing~~ startling him from his thoughts, making him forget about his annoyance, his exertion and exhaustion. 

The same laughter like before: sparkling, joyous and so childlike he still thought it should repel him, be disgusted with himself, yet Peter had made it perfectly clear that he was far from a child and wouldn’t accept to be treated like one. And even more that he would always do everything to get what he wanted (and the past had proven often enough that Killian mostly didn’t stand a change). 

“You know… I like you all bossy and commanding.”

“Really?!” Killian raised his eyebrow, stepped back out of reach from the grabbing hands. The touch was wonderfully familiar - teasing and enticing - but they were in public. “Wouldn’t have guessed that, since you usually never stop complaining or - like today - looking at me like you wanted to kill me with your eyes.” 

“That was because of that woman. I don’t like that she cuts you down, restrains your ideas.” It was the same expression like Killian had seen during the shoot, so he knew Peter was not tricking him. 

“Sure, you only care about my best.” He chuckled, lighting another cigarette, since this was going to take longer than expected (not that he minded at all) and he could see that Rebecca had started packing everything up and the cameras were already neatly folded into a dark soft cloth to keep them safe from the high air moisture.

“Of course.” 

“And you’re totally _not_ jealous.” 

“Don’t overestimate yourself. You’re not as irresistible as you think.” 

Killian smirked, because the grabby hands were back and slender fingers hooked themselves into his belt holes to pull him closer. 

“And yet the fact that you’re unable to keep your hands from me is totally giving away that, at least for you, I am.” 

"I'm just trying to be a nice flatmate and get you more relaxed, since I know how hard days like this are for you... and oh...!" A smile like hell itself: thrilling and hot and dangerous, while a soft palm sneaked into his boxers and covered his bare skin. 

"... looks like it's working." 

"Shut up." Killian knew he’d lost (although he had fought admirably).

Pity that Peter knew this too. And the laughter with which he graced him was practically glowing with triumph, the sound thick with amusement and pure delight at the same time before it turned into a softer soundless one. An enticing curl, smaller and even more beautiful, but quickly overplayed again with some teasing lick over the corner of his mouth. 

This boy went through more emotions in a second than other people in an hour. Quick as a silver fish gliding through the water. Like a golden tempest in summer. 

He wished he wasn’t so mesmerized. But in this moment all he could do was stare shamelessly ~~and being thankful that he at least was allowed to see it~~. Realizing that he could’ve hold castings for this photoshoot around the whole world and never found someone like him. 

He wished he could stop the eager fingers. 

He wished he could stop the jeans clad groin rubbing against him. 

~~He wished he could just give in~~.

But instead he pushed him away, took his mug of coffee and tried to ignore the mixture of irritation and disappointment on Peter’s face, the yearning in his lower region, the exhaustion in his whole body after over sixteen hours of work. 

With an annoyed huff Peter also turned from him, trudging into the direction of the trailers and the mask. The whole one-hour-drive back to the hotel he was totally ignored by him, not one word, nod or glance. It was like Killian doesn’t exist anymore - pale green eyes staring right through him. 

He seemed cool and cold, uncaring. But Killian knew on the inside his boy was raging, in flames. 

So he didn’t even bother to close his door or lock it after he had arrived in his room. Walking over to the minibar, he grabbed a beer and took three huge gulps before he started to undress, leaving his jacket and the shirt where he discarded them. He longed for a hot shower to get rid of all the tension in his backside, but at the same time he wanted to lie down and just sleep, suppressing the thought of the next morning when he had to get up even earlier. 

He ended up washing himself quickly, brushing cold water into his face and over his head, to clear his mind. Without using a towel, he stepped out of the bathroom only to find himself grabbed and pushed till his back hit the door. 

Then lips on his throat, teeth, almost hurting. Sharp fingers on his biceps. Pointy hipbones colliding with his own. Hurting. Before he could say something, do something, start fighting back, he was released as abruptly like he had been attacked earlier. 

“Hi…” 

Peter had already changed, now wearing something that looked suspiciously like one of Killian’s boxers and of course his missed Pixies shirt. 

“You’re late… I expected you sooner, considering how furious you’ve been.”

He rummaged through his small bag for a new shirt, eying Peter who was already comfortable on his bed, phone in his hand. 

“Oh, maybe I am still furious.” Yet the smile was honey sweet, so deeply content Killian froze for a second. 

“And you don’t have to put that on. You’re not going to need it.” Peter gestured to the shirt before he held up his hand to tell him to be silent, while ordering a quite remarkable amount of tapas, sushi and other finger food from the room service. 

With a shrug Killian pulled his shirt on, laid down beside the boy and switched the TV on. He didn’t like being told what to do and he didn’t like childish behaviour.

“Who’s supposed to eat all that?”

“I am hungry,” came the amused answer. “And since I’ve done so well today and you already told me you’re not going to need me tomorrow morning…”

Peter stretched his legs, slid closer towards him until Killian could feel the warmth radiating from him even before he placed the tawny head on his chest, before the claiming arm went around his middle. 

The hair smelled faintly of water and soap, wonderfully familiar without all the styling products, only some persistent remains of glitter in them. He ~~really~~ tried not to inhale deeply. Peter’s breath through the fabric was misty and soft like morning dew… He could feel the tension leaving his body, could feel himself getting heavy and relaxed. Of course he remembered Peter’s words about still being angry, but it was so tempting to forget them and with every second the thought vanished more into thin air. 

When dinner arrived Peter laid it out onto the blanket in front of the bed, sitting on the floor with his back leaning against the bed between Killian’s legs, looking for his own favorite snacks and occasionally reaching out to offer Killian pieces of Spanish meat and fruits. 

The television was showing some documentary of sharks, the camera diving with the wild beautiful animals into the deep dark sea. Bluish colours, calm music, waves and blood. Killian was still mesmerized that Peter could spend hours on watching those kind of reports. Was mesmerized how the eyes turned softer, darker, following the fascinating creatures into the ocean, how the cool colours painted his features, adding shadows and lights, making the skin appear artificially smooth and touchable, the eyelashes thick and curved (he couldn’t help remembering how they tickled whenever Peter’s face was close to his, when he was kissing the closed lids while the boy was still asleep). 

A small peck on the inside of his knee startled him from his thoughts, the sharp cutted chin was placed upon his thigh. 

“A penny for your thoughts?”

He laughed, not really planning on telling Peter. 

“Just tired.” Watching with languid interest as the boy climbed back onto the bed, laying down beside him, he wished he could just close his eyes and sleep for twenty hours straight. 

Peter snickered when he told him, murmuring something about getting old and boring. 

"You did extremely well today." Because flattering was always a good way to calm the furor that might still be smothering inside Peter. And because it was also the truth. 

“I know.” He muted the television, switched off the lights. The blue of the screen now the only source of illumination - wavering and billowing variations of midnight, indigo and mediterranean blue. It felt like sleeping underneath the surface of the ocean. 

“And I liked it. I liked being part of your twisted fantasy."

"I don't have a twisted fantasy. I... just like to show things in a different shade of light. Show the people that everything has a dark and possibly dangerous or sometimes evil side. It's like a warning."

Peter's fingers trailed his hairline, outlining blindly the features of his face. A calming and arousing treatment that electrified his whole body.

"You want them to fall in love with darkness just like you did. You're trying to seduce them." He stroked over Killian's lip, making his heartbeat flutter. "But they are stupid. All they can see is the beauty that conceals this darkness, the pretty clothes, the alluring women, the fog of expensive exclusivity. They are deluded - tangled in that web to which you sold your soul. They will never see what you’re seeing.”

It kind of hurt, in the way the truth always hurts. Like a thorn buried deep underneath the skin, a small and needle sharp pain, scraping over his heart with every wrong movement.

"I think you interpret too much into nothing." 

"I don't think so." He forced his head around so Killian had to look into his eyes. "Do you remember the day we met?" 

(He kept on asking this like he was afraid Killian could forget.) 

~~Something that drove that thorn inside his breast even deeper into his flesh~~.

He just nodded. 

“Your eyes. They don’t see what other people see. You look behind the veils of normality and superficiality. You see the shadows lurking there, the things everyone tries to hide. That’s the reason you’re so brilliant in what you do - even if fools like Charlene or your usual customers aren’t able to recognize it. They use your proficiency to sell her product and they don’t even realize that _your_ talent is the reason the people buy it and not theirs.”

Killian would have smiled in triumph, if it wasn’t for the warm hands still around his face and the sheer fact he had never seen him that honest and sincere. 

“ _It was the reason I went with you_.” 

(If it wasn’t for those tiny words.) 

Instead he cupped the back of Peter’s head and pulled him closer, tracing the lower lip with his own. The taste of tomatoes, grapes and pepper - he smiled. Licking deeper, searching for the taste of Peter underneath when the boy climbed onto his lap. 

All his sarcastic remarks immediately forgotten when the boy started to move his hips, rubbing against him. 

All his exhaustion vanished into thin air when he _finally_ found the taste he was longing for. 

“Weren’t you afraid I would see yours, too?” His voice was a whisper - breathless - because he couldn’t end the kiss until he had had his fill. 

“No, for I wanted to see yours too.” 

___

 

**The End**


End file.
